


Fallen Angel

by Quoth_the_Raven_1849



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Childbirth, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Discussion of Abortion, Electrocution, Eventual Romance, F/M, Graphic Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Human Trafficking, I'm not nice to Kurt, Major Character Injury, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organ Transplantation, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Whump, well kinda but they're mutants and it's not for sex so idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22137820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quoth_the_Raven_1849/pseuds/Quoth_the_Raven_1849
Summary: Kurt Wagner's life, from the moment he was born, has been one long nightmare. The cruel ringmaster that whipped, drugged, and exploited him for his acrobatic talents was bad enough - but he couldn't have imagined the torture that would await him in the laboratory of Colonel William Stryker. Shattered by trauma, he thinks himself a monster, beyond all hope and unworthy of love. Ororo Munroe, the striking young woman he's known since 1983 - long before Stryker's instruments ripped his insides apart - seems to disagree. But what can a goddess possibly see in the eyes of a demon?
Relationships: Charles Xavier/Moira MacTaggert, Erik Lehnsherr/Selene Gallio, Kurt Wagner/Ororo Munroe, Raven Darkholme/Azazel (past), Raven Darkholme/Erik Lehnsherr (implied), Raven Darkholme/Hank McCoy, Scott Summers/Jean Grey
Comments: 73
Kudos: 55





	1. Beautiful Boy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic depicts the characters as portrayed in the prequel films, because (1) that cast is better, fight me, and (2) Kodi Smit-Mcphee's portrayal of Kurt is what made me fall in love with the character :)
> 
> (Blah blah blah, legal stuff so I don't get sued, you know the drill.....)
> 
> I own none of the characters (as much as I'd love to own Nightcrawler, sadly I don't) and none of the other brands, music, etc mentioned in this fic.
> 
> EDIT: okay, I didn't originally include this in my preamble because I didn't expect anyone to pay attention to it, but now that some people are actually reading it (!!!!) I feel the need to explain some stuff. 
> 
> 1\. I said Mystique was pregnant for 18 months because the official wiki for Azazel lists him as dying in July 1963, and Kurt was born in November 1964, so Mystique would've had to conceive him in May or June of 1963. I reasoned that since she's a mutant and Azazel isn't even human, an extended gestation wouldn't be totally outside the realm of possibility.
> 
> 2\. On that same note, yes, I know Angel Salvadore and Emma Frost were canonically dead by November 1964, but I wanted Mystique to have a female support team while giving birth to Kurt, and I liked the idea of the three of them having a sisterly bond. 
> 
> 3\. I have read some Nightcrawler/X-men comics, and I have seen all of the X-men films (save for the Wolverine solos and Deadpool films), but this fic isn't going to be 100 percent loyal to either of them. It will blend some elements of the comics into the movie canon, and there will be times when both are kind of thrown to the wind. My apologies to purists. 
> 
> 4\. Sorry to Kurt/Amanda and Kurt/Kitty shippers, but I'm probably not going to have either ship in this fic - and if I do, they will likely be portrayed as toxic, because both relationships felt rather forced to me in the comics. Also, I don't like Kitty. Of all the Kurt ships I've read, hers felt the most toxic. (Sorry to those who are Kitty fans.)

November 17, 1966  
Bavaria, Germany

Mystique hunched over the edge of the bathtub, swaying back and forth on her knees and moaning like a wounded animal. After an eighteen-month pregnancy, she was at last in labor, yet she still wasn’t ready. Azazel - her lover, the father of her child - was dead, and she was alone.

But then, she wasn’t entirely alone, she remembered with a slight smile, as Angel walked back into the room with a small bucket of warm water. “Where’s Emma?” she asked. “I didn’t see her when I was in the kitchen.” Mystique snorted. “I kicked her out. Didn’t want her to see me like this.”

“Fair enough.” Angel said, kneeling beside Mystique and gently working at the knot in her lower back with practiced fingers. Midwifery had been her first dream, long before her mutations appeared. She’d been present for a total of thirty-eight births by the time she herself was twenty-five.

For a while, everyone – the Brotherhood included – had thought Angel was dead, struck down by Project WideAwake like so many before her. _Including Azazel,_ Mystique thought. Her grip on the side of the bathtub tightened until her knuckles turned pale blue. Tears burned her eyes.

“Hey, hey. Ssssh. Deep breaths.” Angel said gently, rubbing her back. “Your baby’s coming. It’s coming. Don’t think about anything else.” A pained sob escaped Mystique’s throat, and she cried out for Azazel. “I know, honey. I’m sorry.” Angel murmured, rubbing Mystique’s back.

Mystique inhaled sharply as she felt the pressure in her pelvic girdle growing suddenly more intense. “I – I think I need to push, maybe.” she said. Angel nodded calmly. “Okay.” she said, and began laying out towels. Mystique drew in a shaky breath and emitted a high-pitched moan.

“Now, huh?” Angel said. Mystique bit down on her lower lip and nodded. “Oh, god!” she whimpered, shifting her legs to allow the head more room. “No, you’re fine.” Angel said reassuringly, supporting her with one hand and poising the other between her knees. “Just push when you’re ready.”

Mystique strained almost without intending to, her body taking over as the top of the baby’s head pushed the softened bones of her pelvis open. “Well done, Myst.” Angel encouraged her. “Deep breath in and go again.” Mystique inhaled, pushed again, and cried out as it began to burn.

“Yep, it’s gonna hurt.” Angel murmured soothingly, applying counter pressure to prevent the head from slipping back inside of her. “It’s burning!” Mystique sobbed. “Please get it out, please, please…” Angel squeezed her knee reassuringly. “You’re doing fine, baby doll.”

The next forty minutes were spent in a pattern of straining and resting. Mystique cried a lot, from the pain and the grief she still felt for Azazel. Angel was there the entire time, soothing Mystique and encouraging her. 

The head would partially emerge during the contractions, but as soon as Mystique stopped pushing, it slipped back inside her. “I can’t get it out!” she wailed in frustration, sweat glistening on her face, neck, and chest. “Honey, you’re doing fine.” Angel soothed. “Give me a nice, long push.”

Mystique held her breath and strained with all her might, crying out toward the end as the burning intensified. Angel let out an excited cry. “The baby’s head is right there, honey! You’re doing it!” she exclaimed. Mystique paused for a moment to suck in a breath, then pushed again.

Another scream tore from her throat as she felt the head stretching her. She was so close, but she wanted more than anything to stop straining and just rest for a minute. Angel grasped her knees and held them open. “Come on, Mystique. Push for me, one more time.” she almost pleaded.

Mystique panted, sweat rolling down her neck and chest, and pushed with all the strength that remained inside her. The head surged down her birth canal, and all at once it was over. At least, the crowning was over. The head was laying between her legs. “Oh god, oh god.” she gasped. 

“Rest a minute, Mystique.” Angel said, cradling the head in both hands. “We need to get this baby out of you on the next contraction, okay?” Mystique swallowed hard. “Why? Is something wrong?” she asked. 

“The cord is around the baby’s neck. It needs to come out soon, okay?” Angel replied calmly. “As soon as you feel the next contraction, push.” Mystique nodded, tears of fear joining the ones of agony that streaked her sapphire-colored cheeks. When the sensations came, she pushed.

“There you go, push, push, push, push.” Angel urged, all business now. “Long and hard, long and hard. Excellent, excellent. Good girl. Good girl.” The shoulders were a little on the slender side, which Mystique wasn’t about to complain about. A couple of strong pushes, and they emerged.

“Good job, Myst. Good job.” Angel said, easing the second shoulder out. “The cord is safe now, okay? You did great. One more push should do it.” Mystique panted a few times, exhausted from delivering the baby’s head, then inhaled and pushed as hard as her dwindling strength allowed her. 

The rest of the baby slid free of her birth canal and into Angel’s arms. “Well done, Mystique!” Angel exclaimed, her face flushed with delight as she rubbed the baby’s back to help it breathe. “It’s a beautiful little boy!” Mystique felt herself smile in spite of her exhaustion. _A son. I have a son._

Her smile dimmed slightly as Angel laid the soggy newborn on her chest, loosely wrapped in a towel. His skin was bright blue, as vibrant as hers. And that wasn’t the only very obvious mutation he already sported. 

He had two fingers and a thumb on each hand and two toes on each foot. A slender blue tail ending in a tiny spade, already almost as long as he was tall, attempted to coil around everything within its reach.

He squinted up at her with luminescent amber eyes, his large black pupils struggling to adapt to the sudden change in light. He didn’t cry, just emitted soft whimpers. A yawn revealed two complete rows of tiny pearly white fangs and a purplish tongue with a slight fork at the end.

 _He looks like both of us_ , Mystique thought, with a stab of grief for Azazel. She smoothed their son’s thick black curls, still wet with amniotic fluid. His features were delicate, angelic, so beautiful that he looked like a doll. Massive eyes, thick black lashes, elegant nose, luscious lips – beautiful.

She was still studying her newborn’s face when the placenta came out. Angel clamped the cord and handed Mystique the scissors, and another lump of grief lodged itself in her throat as she carefully severed her last physical tie to her son. _Azazel should’ve been here to cut it, not me._

“We have a problem.” Emma announced grimly from the doorway, startling Mystique. “Project WideAwake operatives, ETA ten minutes.” Angel took the baby from Mystique and whisked him over to the sink. “Get cleaned up and dressed, Myst.” she said. “You two are leaving.”

“Don’t you mean _we_ are leaving?” Mystique asked, deliberately putting emphasis on ‘we.’ Angel gave a solemn shake of her head, as did Emma. “You and that little boy are leaving. We’re going to buy you some time.” she said quietly. “You two are the future of the mutant race.”

Mystique blinked hard, refusing to show weakness in a moment where the other two were being so strong. “I’m not losing you like I lost Azazel.”

Angel quickly cleaned the baby off and wrapped him in a white blanket. He mewled softly, his tail flicking to and fro, and Angel smiled at him. "Look at this boy, Myst.” she murmured. “Look at this precious little boy. He needs you to take him away from here, take him where he’ll be safe. Me and Emma’s duty is to keep those WideAwake operatives distracted until the two of you are long gone. That’s our choice, and our sacrifice.”

She handed the baby to Emma and filled a bowl with soap and water, placing it on the tile floor so she could help Mystique clean herself up. Mystique didn’t resist the touch of the washcloth, even though the soap stung her irritated flesh. “I can’t leave you to them.” she whispered.

Angel smiled sadly at her and gently dabbed the water off her legs.

“They’re almost here.” Emma said. “Their thoughts are getting louder.” Angel grasped Mystique by both hands and tried to pull her to her feet, and the latter gasped as pain knifed through the lower half of her body.

“I’m sorry, Myst. I know that hurts.” Angel murmured, genuine sympathy on her face, and Mystique felt another stab of guilt. Angel was the closest female friend she’d ever had. She couldn’t imagine facing the struggles of motherhood without her to confide in, of facing life without her support.

Angel helped her put on her underwear, a thick pad inside them to catch the postpartum bleeding, and then into a pair of pants. Every movement left Mystique breathless with pain, especially when she spread her legs. She hadn’t torn, but a vaginal birth still came with pain “down there.”

Angel was helping her into her boots – any bending over made her dizzy from the blood loss – when there came a violent pounding at the door. “They’re here!” Emma shouted, turning herself to diamond and bolting to the front of the no-longer-safe house. “Mystique, take the boy and run!”

Angel flung a trench coat across Mystique’s shoulders and pressed the baby into her arms. “Go. Now. Don’t argue with me.” she hissed urgently. 

Mystique gingerly descended the back stairs, her exhausted legs shaking with every step. She heard the unmistakable rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire from the front room as the operatives forced their way in, and a violent chill ran down her spine. Emma and Angel weren’t going to survive this.

She turned at the last minute, feeling a sudden panic at the idea of saying goodbye. Goodbye to two of the strongest, wisest, and most grounded women she’d ever met. Goodbye for real. Goodbye forever.

“I can’t do this! I can’t!” she whimpered, her entire body shuddering with repressed sobs. Azazel was dead, Erik would be in prison for god knows how long, and she was about to lose both Angel and Emma in one day. “How do I raise him? I don’t know anything about motherhood!”

Angel briefly squeezed her hand, blinking hard. “I’m sorry, my friend.” she whispered. She seemed about to say more, but a chilling scream from the other room - in an all-too familiar woman’s voice - cut her off. “Run!” Angel hissed, pushing her toward the snow-covered treeline.

So Mystique ran, although it was more of a stiff, uneven lope. She ran until the forest enveloped her in its dark embrace, ran while the gunfire and screams of a struggle whose outcome she knew split the night air behind her, ran with the newborn wrapped tightly in her arms.

Branches scratched her face and snagged her hair, but she didn’t stop, and she didn’t look back. She couldn’t bear to see the muzzleflash of the operatives’ guns as they cut her sisters down, couldn’t see Angel’s blood drip down the stairs and turn the snow’s clean whiteness to crimson.

The cycle had once again repeated, and she’d once again lost everything. Any time Mystique allowed entertained the thought of emotional healing, it ended the same way – with blood and screams. This was the last time. The baby began to cry, but she didn’t care. Caring would only bring pain.

* * *

November 18, 1966  
Eight miles away, on the shores of the river Isar

 _“Mother! Mother! Look!”_

Margali Szardos sighed and rolled over, knowing she wouldn’t be getting any more sleep this morning. Whatever it was, Stefan wasn’t letting it go. Hopefully it wouldn’t be some dead thing like it was last time. Three days had passed before her appetite returned. She sighed again and got up.

What she saw when she emerged from her family’s wagon made her emit a strangled cry of surprise, for Stefan hadn’t discovered something dead this time at all. This time, he’d discovered something very much alive.

Stefan and Jimaine were chest-deep in the river, not confident enough swimmers to venture any further, swirling their skinny tanned arms underwater in an attempt to draw a tiny makeshift raft closer to them. Thin wails rose from the white bundle secured to its raw wood surface.

“A baby! A baby!” Jimaine shouted excitedly. “Mother, we found a baby!” Margali waded to them, wincing as the freezing water nipped at her legs. "Change your clothes and go stand by the fire, you’ll catch your death!” she ordered her children, making shooing motions with both hands.

Her six-year-old son and four-year-old daughter, obedient despite their young age, sloshed to the banks and plodded into the Szardos’ wagon. “Come here, you poor thing.” Margali cooed, untangling the infant from the twine that secured it to the raft and gathering it against her chest.

When her children told her they’d found a baby, Margali was surprised, but she had no idea just how surprising the child would turn out to be. What she saw when she pulled back the blanket gave her the shock of a lifetime. The baby was blue. Not for cold or lack of air, but blue- _skinned._

She was still in shock when an appendage resembling a snake emerged from the blanket’s folds and twined around her arm. The baby had a tail. He grasped at her clothes with three-fingered hands, two-toed feet poking out the end of the blanket, and his wailing exposed a full set of fangs.

Most people, never mind most Catholics, would’ve taken one look at such an infant and drowned him or her as some sort of spawn of the devil. Margali’s first impression of the child, admittedly, was of apprehension and a not-insignificant amount of fear. It had a tail, for heaven’s sake!

Then, she saw the fear in its massive amber eyes. She felt its little body shivering against hers. She felt how damp the blanket was from the river and heard its stomach rumbling. She saw the dark tear trails streaking the cerulean skin of its cheeks, even while its cries subsided to hiccups.

And she chose mercy.

“Sssh, sssh.” she whispered, removing the soaked blanket from its body. It was a he, she discovered, and he was naked underneath the blanket. His umbilical cord was soft and flexible – and still clamped, meaning he’d been born very recently. He was only days – or maybe even hours – old.

Margali walked back out of the river, her eyes never leaving the newborn in her arms. “Hush, my beautiful boy.” she murmured. “Mama’s got you.” She smoothed his thick black curls with one hand and lightly tweaked the tips of his pointy ears, causing his luscious lips to curl up slightly.

Margali smiled back at him, feeling the same fluttering in her chest as she had when she held her own children in her arms for the first time. “Three children.” she mused. “I pray you’ll be more placid than Stefan.” He gazed at her for a moment, then wrinkled his nose and sneezed.

Margali chuckled again, kissed him on the head, and held him closer. “Whatever you are, you’re mine now.” she whispered, a deep promise held within her words. “And as long as I’m here, no one can hurt you.”

The baby looked up at her with trusting eyes, grasping onto her clothing with his unique hands, until he managed to snag one of her necklaces. “Not for you, little one.” Margali gently admonished, untangling the boy’s surprisingly strong fingers from the delicate white-gold box chain.

The baby tried again, a determined look on his face, and as Margali patiently worked the chain out of his grip, she realized which necklace had piqued his interest – her fang pendant, the canine of a dire wolf. 

“You arrived just before the moon reached its peak.” Margali murmured. “My dire wolf tooth fascinates you, and you have fangs, claws, and a tail. I believe you have saved me the trouble of picking a name for you, dear. You shall be called Kurt, for in your soul, you are a little blue wolf." 


	2. Once Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it hasn't even been a week, but the response I've gotten so far has made me excited enough to jump the update gun. So here you go with some whump and a smidgen of hurt/comfort! Sorry if this chapter feels clumsy, and feel free to rip me apart in the comments if it does - fumbling the pacing seems to be a common problem for me. I was just trying to figure out how Kurt could've seen Mystique on TV in 1973, like he said in Apocalypse, if he lived in a cage for the first fifteen or so years of his life. 
> 
> My rational brain: Well, this is your version of events. Maybe he escaped earlier than the comics would suggest?
> 
> My author brain: *pounds on table* WHUMPFIC WHUMPFIC WHUMPFIC!!
> 
> Also! The theme song for this chapter - aka what I was listening to while I wrote it - is "Lost Boy" by Ruth B. It's a beautifully sad song and I think it fits Kurt pretty well. You should give it a listen :) I was debating actually mentioning that because I thought it would sound dumb to say I sometimes give my chapters theme songs, but apparently lots of people do that, so here we are.
> 
> There was a time when I was alone  
> Nowhere to go and no place to call home  
> My only friend was the man in the moon  
> And even sometimes he would go away, too
> 
> Then one night, as I closed my eyes  
> I saw a shadow flying high  
> He came to me with the sweetest smile  
> Told me he wanted to talk for awhile  
> He said, "Peter Pan, that's what they call me  
> I promise that you'll never be lonely"  
> And ever since that day
> 
> I am a lost boy from Neverland  
> Usually hanging out with Peter Pan  
> And when we're bored we play in the woods  
> Always on the run from Captain Hook  
> "Run, run, lost boy," they say to me  
> Away from all of reality
> 
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free  
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free
> 
> He sprinkled me in pixie dust and told me to believe  
> Believe in him and believe in me  
> Together we will fly away in a cloud of green  
> To your beautiful destiny  
> As we soared above the town that never loved me  
> I realized I finally had a family  
> Soon enough we reached Neverland  
> Peacefully my feet hit the sand  
> And ever since that day
> 
> I am a lost boy from Neverland  
> Usually hanging out with Peter Pan  
> And when we're bored we play in the woods  
> Always on the run from Captain Hook  
> "Run, run, lost boy," they say to me  
> Away from all of reality
> 
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free  
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free
> 
> Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Wendy Darling  
> Even Captain Hook, you are my perfect story book  
> Neverland, I love you so  
> You are now my home sweet home  
> Forever a lost boy at last
> 
> Peter Pan, Tinkerbell, Wendy Darling  
> Even Captain Hook, you are my perfect story book  
> Neverland, I love you so  
> You are now my home sweet home  
> Forever a lost boy at last
> 
> And for always I will say
> 
> I am a lost boy from Neverland  
> Usually hanging out with Peter Pan  
> And when we're bored we play in the woods  
> Always on the run from Captain Hook  
> "Run, run, lost boy," they say to me  
> Away from all of reality
> 
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free  
> Neverland is home to lost boys like me  
> And lost boys like me are free

January 1973

Munich, Germany

_“He is not fit to perform tonight, Herr Getmann. Please, let him rest –”_

_“What do you think this is, woman? He must earn his keep!”_

_“I understand, sir, and he will perform splendidly tomorrow night –”_

_“Not tomorrow night, woman. Tonight. Kurt is too popular to shelve.”_

_“Herr Getmann, the whipping he just received tore the muscle in his shoulderblades. I fear he will be unable to properly grip the ropes.”_

_“You have my answer. Now get out, or I’ll have you whipped as well.”_

Kurt wearily lifted his head as he heard approaching footsteps. Much to his relief, it wasn’t Getmann that walked up to his cage, but his mother. The tears on her cheeks were of frustrated anger, but he could see the fear in her eyes. “Kurt, my dear….” she began, her voice quivering. 

“I know, Mother.” he replied in a hoarse whisper, trying to smile at her. “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure the wounds will close up by tonight.” Margali didn’t look convinced. “Roll over and let me see them.” she said. Kurt obeyed with a grunt, laying heavily on his side, his back to Margali.

“Oh, Kurt.” he heard his mother whisper, gently touching the brutal gashes in his upper back. Kurt gasped and curled himself into a ball, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears in. “It – hurts.” he choked out. “I know, my beautiful boy.” Margali replied softly, her voice full of pain.

Kurt did his best to lie still while his mother applied a poultice to the whip lashes, but the wounds stung like hell, and touching them was a special kind of torture to his nerve endings. He whimpered softly, tears sliding off his face and mingling with the puddles of blood on the floor.

When she was finished, his mother snaked a hand through the bars. Kurt took it and squeezed, trying not to show alarm when he realized how weak his grip currently was. “Be careful tonight, my beautiful boy.” she whispered, and then she was gone. They never had long together.

Kurt laid on his side for hours, watching the sun sink lower in the sky and dreading when it would slip below the horizon. He could feel each individual bruise forming on his back, and the gashes were still oozing. 

He held up one three-fingered hand and watched himself try to clench it into a fist. A knot of anxiety formed in his stomach as he tried and failed. His mother was right. The wounds in the muscle of his shoulderblades were too severe for him to perform. He wouldn’t be able to grip the rope.

He was still laying there, willing showtime to never come, when he heard the heavy footfalls of Rolfe Gecht, a strongman and Getmann’s muscle. His job was escorting the more…unwilling acts from point A to point B. He only ever took Kurt one of two places: the whipping post or the tent.

This morning, it had been the post. Kurt still wasn’t sure what he’d done, but Getmann was mad, and Kurt’s appearance made him an easy target. Rolfe had slammed the cage door open at the crack of dawn, waking him from a sound sleep, and dragged him to the post with no explanation.

But the worst part wasn’t really the whip, as badly as it hurt. For Kurt, the most traumatizing part was when everyone else gathered to watch. They’d laugh as the cowhide sent tongues of fire across his skin, as the screams tore from his throat and the blood poured down his young body. 

How did humans manage to find such delight in the suffering of others? If that was what it meant to be human, he’d rather be…whatever he was. 

“Up, devil boy.” Rolfe growled, starting to unlock the cage. Kurt eased himself into a crouching position, wincing as blood welled up anew from the wounds on his back. Rolfe grabbed his arm as roughly as always, yanking him out of the cage. “You’re on in ten. Hurry up.” he snapped.

Kurt scrabbled at the fingers that were tightly clamped around his wrist. “You’re hurting me!” he protested in a low whimper, knowing that if he sassed Getmann’s lapdog, he would only make things worse for himself. “Do I look like I care?” Rolfe snarled. “Toughen up, you little runt.”

Kurt held his tongue after that, even though Rolfe’s jerking him around made him bleed more – not to mention it hurt. When they reached the main tent, Kurt scrambled to wrap his hands and feet and chalk up. He’d only _just_ reached his starting position when his cue came.

_“Up next, an audience favorite – the flying fiend, the magnificent monster, the daredevil demon, the unholy offspring of humanity and death itself! Call it what you will, ladies and gentlemen! We call it amazing!”_

It was Getmann’s usual spiel. Kurt had heard it a million times, but he still felt a hot flush wash over him at the dehumanizing words.

_“Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you this night – the incredible, the amazing, the fantastic – NIGHTCRAWLER!!”_

Kurt dove off the platform and caught the bar of the trapeze with his tail, not trusting himself to use his hands. The crowd gasped as he dangled upside down, letting them all get a good look at him before he continued his routine. Why was it so bright in here? It was making his head swim.

 _You’re fine, Kurt,_ he scolded himself. _You just need some sleep, that’s all._ Yes, the needle they forced under his skin every night had stung more yesterday. The poison that kept him weak and docile had burned more. Yes, he’d had nothing to eat since yesterday at noon, and little water.

But that didn’t mean there was something wrong with him. That didn’t mean he was sick. His performances, the amount of money he raked in for the circus, was what kept the whip from falling on his mother’s back. From falling on his brother or sister’s backs. He couldn’t be sick.

As he struggled to get through the routine, however, Kurt was forced to admit that something was off with his body. He was dizzy and nauseous, and he couldn’t stop shaking. Not to mention every movement made him feel like a hot knife was being jammed between his shoulderblades.

He’d been relying on his feet and tail all evening, too nervous to try to catch himself using his arms, but his closing act – the aerial silks – required his arms whether he liked it or not. He rested in the wings after his opening act, watching the remainder of the show before he closed it.

“You’re up, Kurt.” a voice behind him said, lightly touching his shoulder. It was a fellow trapeze artist, a tall young woman named Anika, and one of the few circus attractions to be kind to him. “Be careful.” she added. Kurt nodded and tried to smile as Anika pressed the silks into his palms.

Kurt listened for the swell of the music that was his cue, took a couple of steadying breaths, and made his entrance. The act got off to a good start. He was relying on his legs and tail far more than usual, but he was keeping his balance better than expected, and it still looked okay.

Then, in the midst of a combination he’d done a million times – a French back balance followed by a salto drop – something went wrong. Maybe it was the wounds messing up his grip, or the bleeding making him dizzy. Maybe it was from being denied food. Maybe he just had a lapse in focus.

All Kurt knew for sure was that he lost his balance. For an agonizingly long moment, he dangled with one leg still wrapped in the silks, fighting to right himself before he went plummeting to the sawdust-covered floor. 

He heard the audience’s collective gasp as he hung there like a spider, then a couple of screams as he failed to recover and dropped like a stone. The fall simultaneously felt quicker than the eye could blink and longer than the rest of his performances combined. He’d never fallen before.

The crunch of bones as he hit the ground echoed deafeningly in his ears, and he curled into a ball as white-hot agony shot through his right leg. His was screaming and he knew it, screaming as loudly as his lungs allowed him to, but his own voice sounded far away from his ears.

He felt trapeze-roughened hands grip him around the chest and firmly uncurl his body, heard Stefan shouting for someone to go get a doctor. Kurt was sobbing, trying to reach down and touch his throbbing ankle. “No, don’t look at it. Kurt, don’t look.” Stefan said. “Close your eyes.”

Kurt looked down anyway, and what he saw made him feel violently ill. His right ankle was sharply angled inward, toward his other leg. It had already swollen to twice its normal size, the skin turning dark purple. “Mother!” he wailed, wanting her arms around him. “Mother, it hurts!” 

_“GETMANN!”_ he heard his mother roar. _“THIS IS YOUR DOING, YOU PIG!”_ Then he felt her fingers tangle themselves in his hair, her tears dripping down from her cheeks and landing on his. “I love you.” she whispered. “My little blue angel. My sweet boy. My poor, sweet boy. I’m so sorry.”

Half a dozen pairs of hands bore him backstage, where he was laid down on top of a big wooden trunk of costumes. Kurt himself unpacked his costume from that trunk every evening, he realized with odd detachment. 

Then four pairs of hands seized him by the shoulders and hips and held him down firmly. Before he could process what was happening, another person grasped him just above the ankle joint with one hand and the middle of his foot with the other and shoved the bone back into place.

The loud crunch, the agony of the broken edges scraping together, and his own cry were the last things Kurt remembered before passing out.

* * *

He spent the next three weeks in the Szardos’ wagon. Getmann almost had an aneurysm about it, but Kurt had developed a nasty infection in his whip lashes and had to be in clean surroundings until it cleared out. The doctor that had been summoned to set his leg was firm about that.

Furthermore, the gashes had required stitches in the end. The doctor sewed them up while he was still unconscious, which was a small favor. He gave him morphine pills (which were promptly stolen) and antibiotics, and immobilized his foot, ankle, and calf in a cumbersome plaster cast.

Being in his mother’s wagon instead of his cage was so nice, however, that it almost made the pain worth it. He got to rest his head on a pillow and nestle under blankets instead of lying on a straw-covered wood floor. He got to eat three meals a day and drink water whenever he wanted. 

More than anything, he could speak to his mother without whispering, give her a hug, squeeze her hand without reaching through cage bars. She laid down next to him in a nest of pillows and blankets, and they watched hours of movies together on a tiny portable television.

One day while watching Disney’s newest movie, _Robin Hood_ , they were interrupted by a newscast about some woman that saved the president of the United States from an assassin. Kurt didn’t pay much attention to it, until he saw her. Blue skin, yellow eyes…. she looked like…. like him.

“Mother?” he asked as she re-entered the wagon, having gone to get their lunch off the fire. “Yes, dear?” she replied, handing him his plate and sitting back down. He murmured a quiet _“Danke,”_ then pointed at the image on the screen, the woman with bright blue skin. “Who is she?”

His mother glanced at the television. “The woman? No one really knows. All we know is that she can shapeshift to look like anyone, but she seems to have blue skin and red hair in her natural appearance – and that she used that power to save the lives of several US government officials.”

Kurt lowered his eyes. “I meant…. _what_ is she? And do you think she might know what…. what I am?” he mumbled, ashamed of his question. His mother gently took his face in both hands and looked him in the eye. “I know what you are, Kurt.” she said. “You’re my son. And I love you.” 

He nodded, dropping her gaze again. “Kurt, look at me.” his mother said. “I wasn’t finished.” When he met her eyes, she smoothed a few dark curls out of his face before continuing. “If you want to know the truth, seek it. I won’t love you any less for it. I’ll love you forever, no matter what.”

Kurt nodded, tears of gratitude burning his eyes. “Thank you, Mother.” His mother kissed him all over the face that was the wrong color of skin, squeezed the hands that didn’t have enough fingers, affectionately tugged the tail that shouldn’t even exist. “No, Kurt. Thank you. For being mine.”

She lifted her rosary, real silver and real jasper beads, off her head and held it up. “This was my mother’s.” she said. “She survived Auschwitz with this rosary stashed under her cot. I see her strength in you, Kurt.” 

She slipped the rosary over his head, her eyes filled with love and pride. “When you leave this place someday, when you take your journey, know you will always be in my heart, and there will always be a place for you. And if you lose your way, remember your roots. Remember your _Oma._ ”

* * *

Eventually, Kurt’s leg healed, the gashes on his back closed up, and he returned to performing. The first few times on the silks made him light-headed with anxiety, but other than that, his injuries seemed to have caused little permanent damage. At least, the audience believed so.

But Margali saw the damage. She saw the deepening cracks in his soul. She saw the emptiness behind his eyes, the pain in them, the silent plea for someone to end his suffering. Her beautiful boy was slowly breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's read, left kudos, and commented so far!! It means the world to me!!


	3. Amen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I know I keep editing the fic between updates, and here's the latest reason. [Long-winded explanation incoming]
> 
> Timelines are a tricky thing. All authors know this. But whoever wrote the X-Men timeline seriously dropped the ball when it comes to Kurt's birth date.
> 
> The official X-Men wiki lists Kurt's birth year as 1966. From reading the Nightcrawler graphic novel "The Winding Way" (And yes, I read "The Devil Inside" first, I'm not chaotic evil) I know he was also born in November. Funny thing is, his father - and all comic fans know Azazel is his father, it's not exactly something that's commonly debated - supposedly DIED in July of 1963. How do you figure, Marvel?
> 
> I could extend the amount of time Mystique was pregnant with Kurt, since anything could go with a mutant/non-human baby. Problem is, doing the math from the latest possible date of conception puts her at a whopping forty-two month pregnancy, only matched by the frilled shark. WOOF.
> 
> So I kept her at eighteen months (which I'm sure still felt like forever to her, sorry Raven) and I'm going to say Azazel died in July of 1965 instead of 1963. If you'd rather me extend the gestation, let me know and I will, but subjecting Mystique to a three-and-a-half-year pregnancy made even me - who lives for whumpfic, not gonna lie - feel kind of guilty.
> 
> Next order of business: the theme for this chapter is "The Unforgiven" by Metallica (which is one of my favorite bands, so their music will mentioned quite a bit). It's inspired my writing more than once, and it didn't let me down when I was working on this chapter. I feel it suits Kurt because the verses speak of a person that was broken very young trying to process that trauma as an adult, and the chorus speaks of him trying not to let anyone see how much he's struggling. 
> 
> New blood joins this earth  
> And quickly he's subdued  
> Through constant pain, disgrace  
> The young boy learns their rules 
> 
> With time the child draws in  
> This whipping boy done wrong  
> Deprived of all his thoughts  
> The young man struggles on and on, he's known 
> 
> A vow unto his own  
> That never from this day  
> His will they'll take away 
> 
> What I've felt  
> What I've known  
> Never shined through in what I've shown 
> 
> Never be  
> Never see  
> Won't see what might have been 
> 
> What I've felt  
> What I've known  
> Never shined through in what I've shown 
> 
> Never free  
> Never me  
> So I dub thee unforgiven 
> 
> They dedicate their lives  
> To running all of his  
> He tries to please them all  
> This bitter man he is 
> 
> Throughout his life the same  
> He's battled constantly  
> This fight he cannot win  
> A tired man they see no longer cares 
> 
> The old man then prepares  
> To die regretfully  
> That old man here is me 
> 
> What I've felt  
> What I've known  
> Never shined through in what I've shown 
> 
> Never be  
> Never see  
> Won't see what might have been 
> 
> What I've felt  
> What I've known  
> Never shined through in what I've shown 
> 
> Never free  
> Never me  
> So I dub thee unforgiven 
> 
> You labeled me  
> I'll label you  
> So I dub thee unforgiven

February 1982  
Munich, Germany

The rain from the past few nights was beginning to rot the wooden roof of the cage-wagon. Here and there it was leaking. The thin layer of straw covering the rough wood floor was damp and smelly from the moisture. 

The steady plink-plink-plink of the trees dripping on the cage-wagon roof didn’t totally cover the sound of broken glass being dragged along skin, but they did muffle it, hopefully enough to avoid being discovered.

“Our Father…. who art in heaven…. hallowed be – thy – _auuuuugh…._ ”

Blood dripped to the rotten floorboards. Kurt lowered the shard of glass from his face with trembling hands and surveyed his work in what remained of the broken mirror. The sigil curled elegantly across his left cheekbone. After hours of digging the glass into his skin, it was perfect.

Over the past few months, Kurt had accumulated dozens of self-inflicted scars on his chest and stomach, spilling over onto his thighs, upper arms, and neck. He had to frequently reopen them to ensure visible scarring. Sometimes they’d swell, feel hot to the touch, or turn black. 

His surroundings were far too unclean to have open wounds like this, but once he started cutting, Kurt couldn’t seem to make himself stop. Self-mutilation was his way of atoning; the scars, his wordless apology. For causing his family trouble. For looking like he’d crawled out of hell.

Kurt gazed into the broken mirror, watching his tears mingle with the dark blood that poured down his face in thick trails. The smell of his blood was so strong, he could practically taste it in the air. He tried to smear the blood off his cheek, but more almost immediately replaced it.

He picked the bloodstained shard up from the floor, wincing when the edges bit into his palm, and held the flesh over his right cheekbone taught with his free hand. He looked in the mirror, taking deep breaths to steady himself, and drove the tip of the glass shard under his skin.

Hot chills washed over his body from the pain. He emitted a soft groan, trying to breathe deeply to avoid passing out, but accidentally drew the blood that was dribbling over his lips into his mouth instead. He choked and coughed it up, hands shaking as he began to carve the next sigil.

“Thy kingdom come – thy will be done – on earth – as it is – _auuugh…_ ”

He ran his forearm across his eyes, the tears preventing him from seeing his work properly. Staying quiet while he did this was so hard, but if he was caught…. well, he didn’t know what would happen if he was caught, but it would probably be bad. A whipping, maybe, or no food for a while.

Kurt wiped away the gushing blood, squinting in the mirror to ensure the new wound matched the one on his left cheek so far. Surprisingly, it did. He took a shuddery breath, then nestled the tip of the shard into the cut and continued where he left off, muttering a prayer to keep himself calm. 

“Give us this day – our daily bread – and forgive us our trespasses –”

He paused to wipe away his tears again, as well as the cold sweat that was rolling down his brow in thick beads in spite of the chill in the air.

“As we forgive those…. who trespass against us…and lead us not into temptation – but deliver us – deliver us –” 

More tears, this time not from the physical pain, dripped from his eyes and splashed down to his boyishly thin legs, which were tucked beneath him in the odd crouching position he’d done since he was a small child. 

“Deliver us. Why won’t you deliver me?” he whispered to the empty air. “From these evil men? From this slavery? Can’t you hear me crying out? Aren’t I one of your children, too? Or do you not care, because I’m blue? Because I have fangs and a tail? Do you only care for the ‘perfect’ ones?” 

He waited, listening to the raindrops patter on the leaky roof of his cage. It wasn’t like he was really expecting an answer, but the silence still felt like a knife in his guts. It just reminded him of how alone he really was. No one was there to tell him he didn’t need to cut himself to ‘earn’ love. 

“Deliver us…. deliver us from evil.” he finally whispered, hoarse from being denied water that day. He stuck the shard back into the wound and twisted it to create a curlicue, his salty tears burning the raw flesh. 

“For thine is the kingdom.…and the power….and the glory…. forever.”

He gazed into the mirror, at the ruined flesh hanging from his face in thin strips, and the intricate designs that would one day emerge from beneath the blood and scar tissue. He would still have to reopen them every night, and the infection he was sure to get wouldn’t be pleasant. 

But the hardest part was over, and hopefully the urge to cut would ease. Sometimes, it didn’t. Sometimes he wound up giving himself an entirely new scar every night for an entire week, and when the infection set in, his entire body seemed to ache and swell and throb until it was gone.

Kurt yanked up the loose floorboard and dropped the bloodstained shard of glass into its hiding place, where it landed with a hollow _clink_ among the coil of jasper beads that made up his rosary. “Amen.” he whispered.

* * *

The cage door squealed in protest as Rolfe swung it open, the hinges beginning to rust. The shackles that dangled from the whipping post, however, were well oiled, and closed easily over Kurt’s slender wrists. Rolfe tightened them more than necessary, a nasty grin on his face.

“Getmann’s out for blood tonight. He’s gonna give you a few more scars.” he hissed in Kurt’s ear. “Not like anyone would notice the difference.” Kurt blinked back tears as Rolfe locked the shackles and stalked off. When he returned, it would be with an angry, whip-toting Getmann.

He couldn’t see behind him unless he twisted around, for the shackles were on the opposite side of the pole than the side Getmann stood on. The unfortunate soul was made to wrap their arms around the pole to restrict movement, preventing them from looking Getmann in the eye.

Kurt’s “master” liked to make his freaks feel like animals. It was why he kept them in cages. It was why he whipped them, and why eye contact resulted in severe punishment. Making eye contact during a beating threw him into a rage, and often made said beating twice as brutal.

Kurt pressed his forehead against the pole and closed his burning eyes. He’d been up most of last night carving sigils into his chin and forehead, to match the ones he carved into his cheekbones the night before that. They were hot to the touch and the skin felt too tight, already infected.

He was too weak to perform tonight, and that threw Getmann into a rage. Whipping him seemed counterintuitive if he wanted him to be able to perform tomorrow, but Getmann had never been the most logical man. The whip was how he “solved” his problems with the circus attractions.

Pressing his fresh wounds against rough, dirty wood proved a mistake. Lightning bolts of pain bloomed from the cuts in Kurt’s forehead, and he bit down hard on his lips to suppress a whimper. Hot tears brimmed under his eyelids, and he shut them so hard he saw red behind them.

Two sets of feet approached him from behind, each gait far too familiar. Getmann was definitely in a mood. Kurt could almost sense the anger seeping from his abuser’s pores as he snapped the whip against the dirt. It was intended to scare Kurt, but he didn’t even react to it this time.

“Oh, so we’re a tough guy now?” Getmann snarled. Kurt braced himself, but he still screamed when the braided cowhide ripped his flesh open. Getmann was pissed, and he made sure Kurt knew it. He struck so hard and fast Kurt couldn’t draw breath between blows, not even to cry out.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what his mother said that day in the wagon, to remember his Oma, who survived Auschwitz. He tried to picture that day, to remember his mother’s comforting scent, the quiet hum of the TV, the cushions and blankets nestled around him.

Then, a strange new sensation swept over his body – like the worst fever he’d ever experienced, making him feel both flushed and chilled, coupled with a dull grinding in his joints, a throbbing in his skull, a twisting in his guts, and a sharp pain in his chest. He heard a sort of hiss and pop.

The lashes suddenly stopped coming. The shackles seemed to vanish. Kurt opened his eyes to find himself lying on the floor of the wagon. Jimaine was standing by the door, mouth open and eyes popping. “Kurt?” she whispered, then crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

Kurt felt about to faint himself, but it wasn’t just because of the shock. He was woozy from the beating, and whatever it was he'd done had left him shaky and out of breath. Suddenly, his mother was there, a firm hand over his mouth. “Hush, Kurt.” she hissed. “They mustn’t find you.”

“DEVIL CHILD! SPAWN OF HELL!” he heard Getmann shouting outside. “FIND THAT DEMON BOY! FIND HIM! I WANT HIS HEAD ON A POLE!” Kurt clung to his mother’s shirt like a small child, trembling like a leaf. “What’s wrong with me, Mother? I don’t understand.” he whimpered.

“I’m not sure, my darling.” his mother whispered back. “But it’s not something ‘wrong.’ You are not a monster, Kurt. Do you understand?” Kurt nodded, tears sliding down his sore and swollen facial wounds. 

It was fully dark now, and the circus attractions who didn’t live in cages were searching the grounds with torches. Kurt could see the orange glow through the wagon’s windows. His mother laid on the floor beside him, arms wrapped tightly around him. He coiled his tail around her ribcage.

She tore her gaze from the ceiling, where the orange light was reflected, and looked at him. Kurt could barely see her face in the low light, but he could see the tears glistening on her cheeks. “I love you.” he whispered. She kissed the scarred-up blue skin of his forehead and held him closer. 

“Kurt.” she whispered back, her voice trembling. “Listen to me, little wolf. When they find us, I want you to run. Don’t look back. Don’t wait for me. And wherever you go, wherever you are – know how much your mother loves you. You will always be in my heart, and I will always be with you.”

She pressed her hand against the bare, bloodied skin of his young chest. “I’ll be here, Kurt.” she whispered, her voice starting to break. “Always.” He laid his hand over hers, his breath shuddering as he tried not to cry. “Mother –” he began, but she quieted his protests with a gentle hand.

“If you stay, they _will_ kill you. And it will kill me to watch. Promise me you’ll run, Kurt. Promise me.” she whispered, desperation in her voice. Kurt took a shuddery breath, clutched the cross that dangled on the end of his rosary, and thought of his Oma. “I promise.” he whispered back.

His mother kissed him on the forehead one last time, the tears streaming freely down her face. “Be strong, my little blue angel.” she murmured, cradling his face in her hands. Then, the door of the wagon rattled loudly as someone tried to force the handle, and their last moments were over.

“I know you’re in there, devil!” Rolfe barked right outside the door. “Margali, don’t be stupid. Give me the boy and no one else gets hurt.” Kurt’s heart was throbbing against the inside of his throat. His mother looked him hard in the eyes, a million emotions playing across her face.

Rolfe slammed his shoulder against the door, breaking the locking mechanism, and barged into the wagon. In the orange light the torch cast on his face, he looked almost animalistic. “Hand him over, Margali.” he snarled, brandishing the torch. “This doesn’t have to concern you.” 

Kurt’s mother grabbed her walking stick, a fierce expression on her face. “You will _not_ touch my son, Rolfe.” she growled, holding the stick as if it were a sword. Kurt was frozen in terror. Rolfe had never had permission to kill him before, and now that he did, he would do it without a thought. 

For a long moment, the three of them stared each other down. Then, Rolfe lunged. Kurt’s mother bodyslammed him, sending him stumbling against the wall, and he fumbled his torch and dropped it. The flames leapt free, climbing the curtains and nibbling the edges of the carpet.

The door slammed from the outside, and Rolfe immediately began pounding on it, trying to force it open. “You can all burn together!” Getmann’s voice came through the door. “GETMANN! YOU BASTARD!” Rolfe bellowed in reply. “I’LL TAN YOUR HIDE FOR THIS! MARK ME!”

Kurt’s mother tried to break a window as the wagon filled with smoke. Jimaine was still lying where she’d fainted, and Kurt dragged her out of the corner as the flames greedily converged upon where she’d just been. The smoke burned his lungs, and the heat was almost unbearable.

Kurt held Jimaine tight and closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come. He tried to remember better times – when he’d first learned acrobatics, and spent hours dangling from a trapeze in the otherwise-empty big top. He remembered the smell of sawdust and the ropes under his fingers.

Then, he felt that strange feverish sensation – and the chest pain and the throbbing head and the aching joints and the writhing stomach – again. When he opened his eyes, he was in the big top, Jimaine cradled securely in his arms. He blinked, feeling woozy. What was happening to him?

“Kurt?” he heard off to his left, and he turned to see Stefan crouched under the circus bleachers, the fear on his face making him appear younger than his twenty-two years. “Are you alright? I heard shouts.” Kurt nodded, a blatant lie. “Where’s Mother?” Stefan asked worriedly.

 _Mother._ “Take care of Jimaine.” he blurted, and ran outside to see that the wagon was now almost completely engulfed in flames. Adrenaline was throbbing through his veins, making it almost impossible to form a coherent thought. _Focus, Kurt. Imagine yourself beside your mother._

Kurt closed his eyes and pictured where he’d just been, scary as it was. He imagined the sting of the smoke in his eyes and the burning as it invaded his lungs, the lack of oxygen and the suffocating heat making his head spin. He imagined the look of fear in his mother’s eyes.

A couple of unpleasant moments later, he was back inside the wagon. His mother was slumped against the wall, barely conscious. Rolfe was coughing violently, but still trying to break the door down. And the fire was spreading rapidly, filling the entire wagon with thick gray smoke.

As Kurt crouched beside his mother, she looked up at him in a daze. “Kurt? I told you to run.” she rasped, then began to cough. Kurt winced and wrapped his arms around her. “Close your eyes, Mother.” he said. He thought of the dim lights of the big top, the sawdust under his feet.

When he opened his eyes, he was once again in the big top, his mother safely wrapped up in his arms. Stefan was kneeling a few feet away, Jimaine’s head in his lap. “Mother!” he exclaimed, relief blooming across his features. “You’re safe now.” Kurt said, laying her down on the floor.

“Thank you for saving me.” she whispered hoarsely, reaching up to tenderly touch his face. “For saving your sister. Now go save yourself.” Kurt laid his large hand over hers, wishing she didn’t have to ever stop touching him like this, like he was human. Like he was her actual son.

“Kurt.” his mother whispered, beginning to pass out. “You promised.” Her eyes slowly closed as she lost consciousness from smoke inhalation. “ _Ja,_ I did.” Kurt murmured. “But I have to do one more thing before I go.” He gently kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye, Mother.” he whispered.

Kurt got to his feet and glanced over at his brother. “Take care of them.” he said softly. Stefan nodded solemnly. “I will. I love you, Kurt.” he said. Kurt threw his arms around his older brother for one last tight hug, ignoring the pain it caused from his whip lashes. “I love you too.”

He stooped and kissed Jimaine, who was beginning to stir, on the cheek. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck, and he returned the embrace. The knowledge of how much he was going to miss them was like a knife in his chest. “Goodbye, sweet Jimaine.” he whispered.

Then, gathering his strength, he closed his eyes and once again pictured himself inside of the burning wagon. Another loud _snap-pop_ , and he was back where he’d just been. He could see nothing but fire all around him, and the ceiling was threatening to collapse. The heat was unbearable.

Kurt took a step toward the door, where he’d last seen Rolfe, and the flames leapt to intercept him, as if they were a mountain lion and not simply an element. Kurt instinctively raised his arms to protect his face. He could feel the skin on his forearms burning, and he began to cough.

Pushing past the heat, the smoke, and the pain, Kurt stumbled deeper into the inferno. Rolfe was no longer pounding on the door, which must mean he’d passed out – but Kurt couldn’t see the floor. “Rolfe?” he called. “Rolfe, it’s Kurt!” No reply. Rolfe was likely either unconscious or dead. 

Kurt dropped to all fours, which was easy for him, and groped around for the circus strongman. The floor was very hot, but Kurt was too focused to fully feel the pain. Finally, his fingertips connected with a large boot. Rolfe was sprawled out on his back, out cold from inhaling the smoke.

Kurt skittered sideways along the length of Rolfe’s body until he could gather his torso into his arms. Then, he closed his eyes and focused, picturing the cool grass, the night sky, the tents scattered around him. This time, the pain was incredible. He felt like he was being torn apart.

When Kurt opened his eyes, they were sprawled clumsily on the cold dirt. He tried to rise, but his head was swimming and his limbs were shaking. His second attempt bore no more fruit than the first – his legs trembled beneath him, and he collapsed, his body shuddering with the effort.

Beside him, Rolfe was stirring. His face and arms were covered in blotchy red and black burns. As his adrenaline ebbed, Kurt realized his own skin was covered in flash burns. His hands, the soles of his feet, and his arms looked to be the worst off, but he could feel the burns on his face, too. 

“THERE HE IS! CATCH THAT DEVIL BOY!” he heard Getmann bellow. Adrenaline rushed anew into his limbs, spurring his exhausted muscles back into action. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, running for his life. A bullet whizzed past him, narrowly missing. They were _shooting_ at him?

No sooner had the realization crossed his mind that his right leg utterly gave out on him, sending him facefirst to the ground. He struggled to get back to his feet, but his right leg wouldn’t cooperate. He glanced down, the image of the tiny hole in his ankle searing itself into his memory.

It was bleeding quite a bit, actually, and the pain was rapidly setting in. His fear driving him on, Kurt struggled to rise, and collapsed yet again. The beads of his rosary crunched under his hip. He grabbed them, held them to his chest, and pleaded to the empty air “Oma, please, help –” 

He didn’t get to finish. Darkness pressed up against his eyes, his limbs felt as if they were being torn from their sockets, and his skull felt like it was being split open with an ax. When it passed, he was lying in the middle of the forest, the shouts of the circus members far away.

Kurt tied the rosary around his hips. “Thank you, Oma.” he said softly. He hugged himself against the sharp wind and began to walk. The night was cold, and he was dressed only in ragged shorts. Getmann didn’t clothe him, and he wouldn’t allow Kurt’s mother to clothe him, either.

Kurt limped slowly through the trees, away from the noise behind him. He had nowhere to go, and there was nothing to do except keep walking. His ankle really did hurt. He could feel the blood trickling down his leg, one of the only things that felt warm – besides the blood on his back.

 _I guess this is it. Keep walking until I either bleed out or freeze to death._

He was oddly nonchalant about dying, he was so miserable right now. His joints hurt. His head hurt. His burns were _really_ starting to hurt. Was his mother okay? His brother and sister? And what about Rolfe?

Why had he saved Rolfe, anyway? It was kind of spur-of-the-moment. That man had never shown Kurt – or anyone else – any sort of decency. So why, when the moment came, had Kurt saved him? Why risk his life for someone who would have killed him without a second thought?

The question made his head hurt more, so he tried not to think about it. It was snowing, he realized, as the tiny flakes began to gather in his hair and eyelashes. If he wasn’t so cold, and walking wasn’t already so hard, he might’ve thought it was pretty. But right now, it filled him with dread.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking when he heard the faint gong of a church bell. It was likely just the wind, and not a person ringing it, but the sound comforted Kurt. He drifted towards it, his mind too addled by pain and exhaustion to consider the possibility of a hostile clergyman.

The sound was coming from a tiny, somewhat run-down stone chapel standing alone atop a hill. There was a village within walking distance, but the chapel was far enough from it that Kurt decided to try his luck. He struggled up the hill, but found himself too weak to climb the stairs.

“Help me, please.” he rasped, unable to speak above a hoarse whisper. “Is anyone there? I need help. Please, I’m in so much pain.” he croaked. “I’ll leave in the morning, I promise.”

No reply. Kurt gingerly laid down on the stone path, just to rest a minute. He’d never felt so cold in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry for the cliffhanger, but this was already a long-ass chapter and adding the next part onto it would've made it stupidly long. I'm also sorry for missing the one-week update mark, which is what I'm aiming for, but my dog's been "off" lately and I'm worried about her. I'm going to try to get the next chapter up over the weekend, because I feel so bad about leaving Kurt like this, but I just had a death in the family and the weekend will probably be taken up by the funeral.
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who's read and left kudos so far!


	4. Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY about taking so long to update. I caught a nasty cold at the funeral I mentioned and spent several days with my head too stuffed up to think straight. I wanted to finish this chapter days ago, but I'd lost my stride and was stuck.
> 
> Anyway, here it is. Better late than never.
> 
> Father Wagner was a character I really enjoyed writing so far. The way I write him is loosely inspired by Christoph Waltz's character in Alita: Battle Angel (freakin' fantastic film, if you haven't seen it, you should). Given that, my name choice was a bit obvious, but I felt that Christoph was a good fit regardless.
> 
> Oh, and one thing - I'm not Catholic, and I wasn't raised Catholic. I'm not promoting Catholicism here, or Christianity in general, for that matter, A. because I can't stand it when people try to force their beliefs on other people, and B. because I don't even really consider myself Christian. I'm a patchwork quilt of whatever the hell I choose to believe this week, and I personally found that it was the most freeing religious decision of my life to stop using the word "religion" to describe my beliefs. I guess it's more spiritualism than anything, but that's too often associated with Ouija boards and weird Victorian mediums. I don't tend to assign a label to it. 
> 
> I do, however, see the rosary as something beautiful and calming, since when I'm anxious I tend to fidget. Having something to keep my hands busy, and to focus on, sounds wonderful when in the midst of a panic attack. So Kurt will frequently fiddle with his rosary, if not to say a prayer then just to feel connected to his mother and grandmother.
> 
> Beliefs-wise, I think Kurt will be very open-minded to other religions besides Catholicism, considering he didn't have the constant church attendance that most Catholics grow up with. He'll have some Catholicism in his own "quilt," yes, but I think he'd enjoy learning about Ororo's religion - although I'm not quite sure what that would be. (I'll do some research.)
> 
> Above all, I can't see Kurt being hateful in any way, shape, or form - to people of different religions, cultures, sexualities, or gender identities, to people who've had divorces or abortions, et cetera. He's experienced too much hate, and his heart is too big, to be cruel to other people.
> 
> Anyway. Moving on.
> 
> The theme for this chapter is "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan, because the lyrical content about being through some dark shit and finally experiencing some kind of peace, even if only for a little while, embodies the intended atmosphere of Father Wagner's church. 
> 
> Spend all your time waiting  
> For that second chance  
> For a break that would make it okay
> 
> There's always some reason  
> To feel not good enough  
> And it's hard at the end of the day
> 
> I need some distraction  
> Oh, beautiful release  
> Memories seep from my veins
> 
> Let me be empty  
> Oh, and weightless, and maybe  
> I'll find some peace tonight
> 
> In the arms of the angel  
> Fly away from here  
> From this dark, cold, hotel room  
> And the endlessness that you fear  
> You are pulled from the wreckage  
> Of your silent reverie  
> You're in the arms of the angel  
> May you find some comfort here
> 
> So tired of the straight line  
> And everywhere you turn  
> There's vultures and thieves at your back
> 
> The storm keeps on twisting  
> Keep on building the lies  
> That you make up for all that you lack
> 
> It don't make no difference  
> Escaping one last time  
> It's easier to believe in this sweet madness  
> Oh, this glorious sadness  
> That brings me to my knees
> 
> In the arms of the angel  
> Fly away from here  
> From this dark, cold, hotel room  
> And the endlessness that you fear  
> You are pulled from the wreckage  
> Of your silent reverie  
> You're in the arms of the angel  
> May you find some comfort here
> 
> You're in the arms of the angel  
> May you find some comfort here

Eight miles from the Munich Circus

Father Christoph Wagner had just finished locking the doors and was extinguishing the candles when he heard it. He assumed the wind was playing tricks on his ears, but something made him pause and listen. Yes, there it was again – a sort of groaning, or perhaps whimpering.

Furrowing his brow, he walked down the aisle to the door and opened it. There was no one on the church stairs, and there didn’t appear to be anyone on the dirt path, either. The wind was still howling, and it had begun to sleet. Father Wagner shivered and began to close the door.

Then, he heard it again, a human groan of pain. “Oh, my.” he murmured, opening the door further and squinting at the dark shape lying at the foot of the stairs. Was that…… a man? Father Wagner’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.” he said again, hurrying down the stairs. “Are you all right?”

Whoever it was, he very much was _not_ all right. Father Wagner almost stopped in his tracks when he smelled blood. “Oh, my.” he murmured again, gathering his robes in one hand and stooping beside the stranger. He was curled up on his side, his whip-scarred back facing the priest.

“You poor thing.” Father Wagner murmured, realizing some of the scars weren’t scars at all, but fresh gashes from a recent beating. “Poor thing.” he said again, then put his lips near the stranger’s head and raised his voice slightly, unsure if the unfortunate soul was still conscious. 

“Son, can you hear me?” he asked, trying to sound reassuring in spite of how shaken up he felt. No reply. Father Wagner was about to ask again when he noticed something odd – the ear he’d spoken into was pointed. Not only that, but what he thought was dark skin now appeared…. blue. 

Father Wagner started to cautiously roll the stranger onto his back so he could get a better look at his injuries, but jumped when he felt something smooth, muscular, and not unlike the body of a large snake twitching beneath his fingers. “What in God’s name…. you have a _tail?_ ” he said.

He did, in fact. It was a tight bundle of smooth muscle protruding from the base of his spine, with a spade on the end. And he did, in fact, have blue skin and pointed ears. “Lord, what have you brought to my door?” Father Wagner murmured, compassion and fear battling within him. 

The former won, and the gentle-souled priest gathered the wounded young man into his arms and carried him into the warmth of the church. He was sixty-three years of age, as of this past October, but he was also hardy and strong, and the blue-skinned stranger was light as a feather.

Father Wagner laid him down on the cot in the back room. It had been there for as long as he could remember, and had given many different people a warm place to sleep. Weary travelers, the homeless, women or children fleeing abusive situations – any tired soul was welcome to it.

In the light of a dozen candles, the stranger looked more boy than man. Father Wagner doubted he was older than sixteen. He most definitely had cobalt skin, but the priest found himself quickly getting used to it. The boy’s face was so gentle, he thought – even when contorted in pain. 

“Let’s have a look at you.” Father Wagner murmured, donning his wire-rimmed spectacles. The first thing that grabbed his attention was how malnourished the boy was. His ribcage and pelvis were too well-defined, his jawbone jutted out, and his skin was stretched tightly over his joints. 

Further inspection revealed quite a few injuries. The boy had flash burns on his face, his hands, the soles of his feet, his forearms, his lower legs, his chest, and his stomach. The ones on his hands, arms, legs, and feet were by far the worst, and the ones on his face were barely noticeable. 

He had a small gunshot wound on his outer right ankle, a straight shaft with clear entry and exit points. The bullet didn’t seem to have shattered, which was a small mercy, as Father Wagner doubted he’d have been able to treat it if it had. It also appeared to have completely missed the bone.

His back bore several whip lashes, still bleeding freely, and dozens of scars from previous beatings. Countless needle marks and bruises made the skin of his arms feel lumpy in places. Every injury he discovered on his heartbreakingly young body made Father Wagner pity the boy more. 

As he carefully felt for broken ribs, the priest noticed an odd bumpy texture beneath his fingers, like scar tissue, but in a sort of…. pattern. Father Wagner removed one of the candles from its sconce and held it closer to the boy’s skin, having trouble believing what he was seeing.

His eyes did not deceive him. The boy’s flesh was covered in angelic sigils that looked like they’d been _cut into him_. His forehead, cheeks, and chin, his neck and chest, his stomach, his upper arms, his thighs – only his forelimbs and back had been spared. Had he done this to _himself?_

Father Wagner glanced at the boy’s face again, the youthfulness of it breaking his heart. In his time as a priest, he’d met plenty of youths that did themselves intentional harm – cut themselves, burned themselves, starved themselves – but this was unlike any cutting he’d ever seen.

Father Wagner scolded himself for fixating on scars when the boy had open wounds to tend to. The bleeding had to stop before anything could be treated, so he applied firm pressure to the wounds with clean towels. It took several minutes for the oozing to stop, allowing him to continue.

He flushed the bullet holes with water and a syringe, sewed them shut, and wrapped the boy’s ankle in cotton dressings. He cleaned and sutured the whip lashes as well and applied aloe (to ease the pain and swelling) and honey (to prevent infection) directly to the raw, angry flesh. 

The burns were fairly superficial. They likely hurt very badly, but there wouldn’t be deep tissue damage or a lot of obvious scarring – if any at all. Father Wagner laid cool, damp clothes on them for a couple of minutes, applied more aloe and honey, and loosely wrapped them in cotton.

As for the cuts on his face, Father Wagner wasn’t quite sure what to do. They were there on purpose, but they were also becoming badly infected. He couldn’t just ignore them. After dithering for a moment, he decided it was better to have the boy angry at him than dying of a staph infection.

He carefully cleaned the wounds with soap and water and dabbed a little honey on them, hoping it would draw out the infection before it became too serious. In all honesty, some of the deeper cuts needed to be sutured, but he had a feeling the boy would tear out any stitches he put in.

Father Wagner was about to put the bloodsoaked towels in the washer when the boy began to stir. He heard the sheets rustling and the rhythm of his breathing change, and a low moan of pain as he started to wake. _Here goes nothing_ , he thought, and raced back to the boy’s bedside.

* * *

The first thing Kurt was aware of when he came to was _pain_. Lots of it. His head still hurt, and his burns throbbed. He was aware of a dull ache in his chest and a sharp pain in his stomach. His joints were _killing_ him. He could feel stitches in his back, flexing and tugging at the raw skin.

Wait – his wounds had been _stitched_? Kurt cautiously opened his eyes, ignoring the stabbing pain behind them, and assessed his surroundings. He was lying on a cot, in a small room with spare furnishings and faded gray, white, and red brick walls. A small cross hung over the only door.

Was he inside the chapel on the hill? Had the clergymen taken him in? Panic suddenly seized Kurt. He struggled to rise off the cot, but white-hot agony knifed through his ankle, and his leg nearly gave out under him. Kurt bit back a cry as he lost his balance and fell onto his burned palms. 

The door opened, and a short, trim man that looked to be in his fifties entered at a brisk trot. He had neat silver hair and alert blue-gray eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and he was dressed in a long black robe. A rosary with sky-blue beads and a silver crucifix hung around his neck.

Kurt skittered backwards on all fours, his heart beating out of his chest. “Easy, easy.” the clergyman said, his soft accent revealing Austrian roots. He extended his hands – roughened by work, but barely withered by age, Kurt noticed – and slowly entered the room. “No one here will harm you.”

“Don’t make me go back!” Kurt blurted out. “They’ll kill me if I go back!” The clergyman probably didn’t know that he was from the circus, but he had no doubt his appearance would lead most people to that conclusion. “You’re safe here.” the man replied. “You can stay as long as you need.”

He offered his hand to Kurt, to help him up. Kurt stared at him, puzzled. “Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asked in confusion. “I’m a monster.” The priest shook his head and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “God doesn’t create monsters.” he said, and offered Kurt his hand again.

This time, Kurt hesitantly took it. He was very weak, and his legs nearly gave out on him again when the priest pulled him to his feet. “I got you.” the priest murmured, steadying him and helping him get back to the cot. He looked at the bandages on Kurt’s gunshot wound and softly tutted.

“That’s not good.” he said, pointing to the red stain that was blooming across the stark whiteness. “That’s why you have to rest. Let it heal.” Kurt winced as the priest began to unwrap the wound. “ _Es tut mir leid_.” he mumbled. The clergyman looked up and smiled. “No fuss.” he said.

He checked Kurt’s stitches for tearing, then firmly pressed down on them to stop the bleeding his movement had caused. “May I ask your name?” he asked as he worked. Kurt wiggled his toes, the feeling finally starting to come back into them as his core temperature rose. “Kurt.” he replied. 

“Just Kurt?” the priest asked, and he nodded. “Just Kurt.” he affirmed. “Very well. Pleasure to meet you, Kurt. I’m Father Christoph Wagner.” the priest said, extending his hand. Kurt shook it, feeling himself smile for the first time in…. how long _had_ it been since he’d last smiled?

“There we are.” Father Wagner said, finishing with the fresh dressings. “When’s the last time you ate, my young friend? You must be hungry.” Kurt swallowed hard, realizing that he was, indeed, hungry. “Saturday.” he replied softly. “Herr Getmann said demons don’t get fed on Sundays.”

“Oh, Kurt. You aren’t a demon.” Father Wagner replied. “You’re a child.” He crossed the room and removed Kurt’s rosary from the nail the cross was hanging on. “Demons can’t wear rosaries. Crosses burn their skin.” he said, returning to the cot and laying the beads in Kurt’s hands.

Kurt looked down at them for a moment, trying to envision them around his Oma’s neck. She was eighteen years old and eight months pregnant when she was sent to Auschwitz. She’d given birth to Kurt’s mother in that horrible place, a Jewish woman she’d never met holding her hand.

That frightened eighteen-year-old girl had clutched these beads in her other hand as she labored, behind the barbed wire fences of the closest thing to hell on earth, and they’d been tucked into her miracle baby’s blanket when a turncoat camp guard smuggled them both out of there. 

Kurt’s mother had given this rosary to _him_ , not to Stephan or Jimaine. Not to her blood children, but to the child she’d chosen. If she’d deemed him worthy of such an heirloom, he couldn’t be all that bad, could he? Kurt slipped the rosary around his neck, and Father Wagner smiled. 

“See?” he said. “A demon couldn’t do that. They’d be screaming by now.” Kurt laughed, surprising himself. Father Wagner put him at such ease. “I’ll be back in a moment with some food for you.” the older man said, rising from the cot. “Please stay put and give your leg some rest.”

He wasn’t gone for long, and he returned with a bowl of warm broth. Kurt’s hands were shaking so badly that he nearly spilled it, and he felt the warm flush of shame creeping over his face. Why was he so weak? “Be patient with yourself.” Father Wagner said, steadying his hands.

Seeing the priest’s hands gently covering his made a strange blend of emotion well up in Kurt’s chest. The priest’s hands were peach-colored and had five fingers, while Kurt’s were sapphire-blue and only had three. Yet Father Wagner was cradling his hands as if Kurt were his own son.

“Why do you care what happens to me?” he asked quietly. “I’m no one.” Father Wagner’s expression was soft. “Because you _are_ someone, Kurt.” he replied. “Even if you don’t feel that way right now, one day you may be someone’s best friend. Someone’s husband, maybe. Someone’s father.” 

The bowl was empty. Father Wagner let his sentence hang in the air, getting up to leave the room. He paused at the doorway and looked back. “I’ll draw you a bath, if you’d like. Then we can see about clothing you.” Kurt nodded. “ _Danke_.” he murmured. “A bath would be wonderful.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Kurt lay nearly submerged in blissfully warm water, only his nose and everything above it protruding from its gentle embrace. His wounds stung, but the heat seeping into his sore joints was worth it. He could get the stitches wet, as long as he was careful to pat them dry. 

Father Wagner tapped on the door. “Are you all right in there?” he asked. “Yes, thank you.” Kurt replied, almost drowsily. “I’ll be out in a little bit.” His new friend chuckled. “Take your time, Kurt. Just don’t catch a chill.” he said, followed by the sound of his soft footfalls as he walked away.

Kurt sunk a little lower into the porcelain clawfoot tub, briefly holding his breath so he could submerge up to his eyes. He tilted his head back to wet his hair, then began to shampoo it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt utterly at peace. In fact, he didn’t think he ever had.

He’d already washed himself off several times, but he still felt like he’d never get the soot off his skin or the stench of the smoke out of his hair. His throat still was sore from inhaling the smoke. Walking hurt his feet, not to mention his wounded ankle. Picking things up hurt his hands.

Kurt found himself wondering if the scars on his back would ever fade. He shouldn’t be ashamed of them. Nothing that had happened to him during his time with the circus was his fault. Herr Getmann was at fault, for drugging and beating and exploiting a child. _He_ was the monster.

So why was Kurt convinced that he was to blame? Why did he feel like he was the monster in this situation? Why did he think he deserved to be mistreated simply because of the way he looked? He’d always done his best to be a good brother to his siblings, and a good son to Margali.

Kurt snaked his tail out of the tub and used it to pick his rosary up off the countertop where he’d left it. “Am I enough the way I am?” he asked, as if the jasper beads and silver chain links could answer his question. “Do I have to hurt myself, even though I’ve never hurt anyone else?”

He absentmindedly traced his fingers across the scars on his throat. They’d been dangerous to make, he realized. One false move, and he could’ve killed himself – but when he made them, he hadn’t really cared if he lived or died. He was hurting, and he wanted the pain to go away.

Kurt sighed and dropped the rosary back on the countertop, then used his tail to pull the plug on the drain. The water was starting to get cold. He gingerly eased himself out of the tub, grabbing a towel with his tail. Father Wagner knocked again. “I brought you some…. unmentionables.”

Kurt smiled to himself. “Thank you.” he replied, cracking the door open to receive the briefs. They were a little too big for him, but hopefully he wouldn’t remain this underweight for long. To his surprise, the priest had opened and re-sewn the seam on the back it to create a tail hole.

“Here.” Father Wagner added, inserting his hand through the crack in the door again. “These might be a bit short, since you’re awful tall, but…” Kurt took the pants from him, a lump of gratitude forming in his throat as he realized they’d been altered, too. “Thank you, my friend.” he said.

“I’ll try to find you a shirt…. I’m sure there’s something in the donations.” Father Wagner continued, almost to himself. “Do you need shoes, Kurt?” Shoes? Kurt had actually never worn shoes before. “I’m not really sure.” he admitted, suddenly ashamed. “I’ve been barefoot for my entire life.” 

“Well…. you think on it, and I’ll just get you a shirt in the meantime.” Father Wagner replied after a moment. “Oh, and Kurt? You have no reason to fear me, all right? No one here will ever lay a hand on you.” Was he a psychic? It was as if he could sense Kurt’s lingering anxiety.

After he dried off and put on the clothes – the pants were indeed a little too short, but Father Wagner promised to find him a pair that fit soon – Kurt laid down on the cot so his wounds could be redressed. The priest reapplied the sweet-smelling poultice and wrapped up his forelimbs.

Kurt watched him work, and found himself wondering why a priest would know how to stitch up a wound. Before he could think better of it, the words “How did you learn this sort of thing?” were out of his mouth. Father Wagner paused. “That’s in the past, where it belongs.” he said.

Kurt mentally scolded himself for asking, but as Father Wagner finished wrapping his ankle in cotton, he noticed a glint of gold on the priest’s third finger. “I thought clergy weren’t allowed to get married.” he said. Father Wagner paused again. “They usually aren’t.” he replied curtly.

Now Kurt was confused. Were priests allowed to marry, or weren’t they? Why was learning medicine something to be ashamed of? And above all, what didn’t Father Wagner want him to know?

_No._ Kurt vowed to put his doubts out of his mind. The priest was kind to him. That was enough, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY NIGHTSTORM PEEPS. I need your help! I'm completely stuck on a song for Kurt and Ororo, to be "their" song - you know, the one that always makes the one think of the other, the one they dance to in the kitchen (or on their wedding day...) that sort of song. It kind of needs to be 90s or 2000s, because I don't want to have a massive timeskip. I'd rather start where Dark Phoenix left off and figure everything out from there. And yes, I know, there are a couple dead bodies left in the wake of that film - I'll get to it, promise. I've got a plan. Also - bit of a poll here - are there any characters you would like me to somehow bring back? Say, Warren Worthington III or Alex Summers? Drop them in the comments anytime you wish, this chapter or future chapters, and I will bend the rules to make it happen. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who reads and leaves kudos, and to Laughing_Screaming, who's the only person to leave any comments so far. You guys keep me going!


	5. Adia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *insert Mushu gif here*  
> I LIVE!!!!!
> 
> So sorry I've been away for so long. I got conked over the head with a chest cold on top of a head cold and haven't really felt well enough to write - and when I finally did, it took me way longer than I would've liked, but I felt had to get this chapter just right. You can't rush art, I suppose.
> 
> The theme song for this chapter is "Adia" by Sarah McLachlan - and since listening to that song lead me to go on a bit of a Sarah McLachlan renaissance, I raise her song "Answer" to Laughing_Screaming as a Kurt/Ororo song :) I'll probably have those lyrics up on a chapter note in the future, but "Adia" is definitely the theme of this one.
> 
> Adia, I do believe I failed you  
> Adia, I know I've let you down  
> Don't you know I tried so hard  
> To love you in my way  
> It's easy, let it go
> 
> Adia, I'm empty since you left me  
> Trying to find a way to carry on  
> I search myself and everyone  
> To see where we went wrong
> 
> There's no one left to finger  
> There's no one here to blame  
> There's no one left to talk to, honey  
> And there ain't no one to buy our innocence
> 
> 'Cause we are born innocent  
> Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent  
> It's easy, we all falter  
> Does it matter?
> 
> Adia, I thought that we could make it  
> I know I can't change the way you feel  
> I leave you with your misery  
> A friend who won't betray  
> I pull you from your tower  
> I take away your pain  
> And show you all the beauty you possess  
> If you'd only let yourself believe
> 
> That we are born innocent  
> Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent  
> It's easy, we all falter  
> Does it matter?
> 
> 'Cause we are born innocent  
> Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent  
> It's easy, we all falter  
> Does it matter?
> 
> Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent  
> 'Cause we are born innocent  
> Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent  
> It's easy, we all falter  
> Does it matter?

June 1982

The past few months had been the happiest of Kurt’s life.

He could eat when he was hungry and sleep when he was tired. He could speak when he had something to say and not fear the whip. 

And as he regained his strength, he began to realize that the church needed caring for as well.

Father Wagner was very healthy for his age, but his prime was past him. He acknowledged that, and made a point of not overextending himself, which was why the church had fallen into mild disrepair. He did his best, but there were some things he just wasn’t physically up to anymore.

Kurt, on the other hand, was young and limber. Performing while underfed and injured had stretched his body to the brink of destruction, but Father Wagner’s patient care built him up to his former strength.

He'd decided on his first night there that he would one day repay him. Once he could walk without pain, he made good on that vow. He repaired and stained the pews and whitewashed the brick walls both inside and out.

He even re-hung the chandelier that had fallen during a storm years ago. The task was dangerous for Father Wagner, but it was a cinch for Kurt.

He climbed the walls, the heavy brass chandelier clutched in his tail, then shimmied out on the central beam, hung by his feet, and used his hands to securely wrap the hanging chain around it.

Father Wagner watched from below, an expression of wonder and pride on his face. “What a gifted boy you are.” he said out of the blue, as Kurt shifted the chandelier from his tail to his hands, face scrunched in concentration.

“Really?” Kurt asked, a smile spreading across his face. His mother and his siblings were the only ones who’d ever said such kind things to him. “Indeed.” Father Wagner said, his voice becoming soft with emotion.

Then he smiled, although it seemed less genuine than his usual smile, like a mask. There was buried pain behind his eyes, and Kurt saw it. “You remind me of someone I knew, a very long time ago.” he added.

Kurt tried to ignore that, focusing instead on fastening the heavy chain. “There. It shouldn’t fall again.” he said, giving it a firm tug for emphasis.

“Kurt, you’ve been nothing but a blessing.” Father Wagner said, beaming. “This church hasn’t looked this nice since the sixties. _Danke schön._ ”

Along with all the sprucing up he did inside the church, Kurt took on a more outdoorsy project – planting a massive flower garden in front of it. Cornflowers, forget-me-nots, calla lilies, peonies, roses, tulips, orchids – any flower seeds he could get his hands on, Kurt lovingly cultivated.

Come spring and summer, the churchyard became an explosion of color. The parish – who were initially wary of Kurt, but trusted their priest’s assurances that he meant no harm – complimented him on its beauty.

One flower, however, seemed to strike a chord with Father Wagner. It was innocent-looking, a cluster of tiny white blooms in a double star formation with a sweet but not overpowering scent.

They were given to Kurt by a kind widow, Marta Hoffman, as an Easter present. He planted them on either side of the stairs, where they could be seen from inside. But when Father Wagner saw them, his reaction was not a pleasant one.

His eyes filled with tears, his mouth trembled, and he hurried past them and into the church, going straight to his quarters and shutting the door. Kurt felt incredibly guilty, but Marta assured him it wasn’t his fault.

“Father Wagner has a lot of pain in his past.” she said in her soft voice, laying a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Sometimes the most mundane things can whip the winds of grief into storm.” Kurt nodded, holding back tears, and excused himself. He moved the flowers behind the church that night.

A few weeks later, on a warm and rainy summer evening, Father Wagner and Kurt sat in the fellowship hall together. Kurt was doing embroidery, one of the few things his mother had managed to teach him, and Father Wagner was using his sewing machine to make Kurt some more pants.

Now that he had proper nourishment, Kurt had been growing rapidly. Father Wagner had joked that he seemed to grow overnight sometimes, but he wasn’t completely wrong. In four months, Kurt had gone from five-foot-ten to six feet tall, and he didn’t seem to be slowing down.

Tonight, the only sounds were the pattering of the rain on the windows and the low hum of Father Wagner’s sewing machine. It was so quiet that Kurt could hear the soft popping sound as his sewing needle punctured the linen of his pillowcase, held taught by a wooden embroidery hoop.

Father Wagner lifted his foot off the sewing machine’s pedal and held up the pants, squinting at the seam he just made. “Come over here, Kurt.” he said. “I want to check the length.” Kurt put down his embroidery on the pew beside him and trotted over to Father Wagner’s sewing table.

“Hold that there, would you?” Father Wagner asked, lightly pressing the hip of the pants against Kurt’s hip. Kurt obeyed and stood perfectly still as Father Wagner lined the pant leg up with his. After a few moments, his friend let out a soft chuckle. “Too short. You grew overnight again.”

“ _Es tut mir leid_.” Kurt mumbled, and Father Wagner raised his eyebrows. “Are you apologizing for _growing_?” he asked with mild incredulousness. “Kurt, I _want_ you to grow. It does my heart good to see you so healthy. All I have to do is let the seam down a little more. No trouble at all.”

He smiled at Kurt, his blue-gray eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, and Kurt beamed and returned to the pew, scooping up his pillowcase. Father Wagner took out his seamripper and swiftly undid the basting, then fed the pant leg back under the machine to re-hem the cuff.

As he bent over the sewing machine and gently pressed on the pedal, Father Wagner asked in an airy tone “Whatever happened to those lovely white flowers Frau Hoffman gave you for Easter?” Kurt froze, accidentally poking his finger with the needle and jumping when it broke the skin.

“I – I moved them, Father Wagner.” he mumbled, sitting on his hand in hopes of stopping the throbbing. “They seemed to – to cause you grief.” Father Wagner said nothing for a long time, his eyes fixed on the pants. Then, the machine made a loud grinding sound as it ran out of thread.

Only then did Father Wagner let go of the pedal. He removed his glasses with one trembling hand and dried the lenses off on the edge of his robe. “Come here, son.” he murmured, beckoning to Kurt with the other hand. Kurt meekly approached him, crouching at his feet like he normally did.

Father Wagner gently took Kurt’s face in his hands, gazing at the wounds with sadness in his eyes “You’ve been reopening them.” he murmured after a moment of scrutiny. “You must let the cuts heal, or they will scar. That may be what you want right now, but one day you might regret it.”

Kurt dropped the priest’s gentle gaze and halfheartedly tried to pull away from his touch, but the older man’s fingers tensed just enough to hold on to him. “Let me see your arms, Kurt.” he said softly. “I want to help you.”

Kurt made a noise of anxiety deep in his throat. “There’s nothing to see.” Father Wagner looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. “Then you have no reason to hide them from me, _ja_? Let’s have a look at them.”

Kurt bit his lip and slowly laid his arms across Father Wagner’s lap, inner arms up. He felt the hot blood of shame pounding in his face. The priest gently took Kurt’s forearms in his hands and gazed down at his newest wounds, made in a fit of self-directed anger a couple days ago.

“DEFORMIS” was scrawled on his inner right arm, and “MONSTRUM” was scrawled on his left, positioned so Kurt could read them easily. A look that may have been disappointment crossed Father Wagner’s face, and Kurt’s insides performed a series of increasingly violent contortions.

“I’m so sorry.” he whispered. “I relapsed again. I just can’t seem to stop.” His skin was prickling, and he was beginning to involuntarily shiver. Father Wagner released Kurt’s arms and gently cradled his face again.

“My dear Kurt.” he said, his voice soft. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re a boy, a boy in pain. I would to anything to end your suffering.”

Easter crossed Kurt’s mind again. “I wish I could end yours.” he replied. Father Wagner leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, as if he were searching for the words he wanted in its rafters.

Not long after he’d re-hung the chandelier, Kurt had painted the ceiling in a soft silver-blue and written his favorite verses all over it, in his careful, elegant script. A gentle smile crossed the priest’s features.

“Do you remember what I said while you were dangling up there by that wonderful tail of yours, painting that splintery old ceiling to make it beautiful again?” he said. Kurt smiled, remembering. “You called me Michelangelo.” he replied.

“That verse is my favorite.” Father Wagner said softly, pointing to part of the ceiling. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs –” He stopped, his voice cracking.

“It keeps no record of wrongs.” Kurt gently stepped in to finish the verse, laying his hand on top of the priest’s. “Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:4-7. One of my favorites as well.”

Father Wagner took a shuddery breath. “Do you believe in forgiveness, Kurt?” he asked. “Please be honest. I want to know your actual opinion. Can we ever make amends for our mistakes? Not just in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of our fellow humans? Can one ever truly be forgiven?”

Kurt had to think about that for a long moment. He hadn’t forgiven Rolfe for what he’d done to him, and he definitely hadn’t forgiven Getmann. Would he feel different if, ten years from now, they apologized to him? “Well…. I think I do.” he finally said. “But only if you’re genuinely sorry.” 

“You have wisdom beyond your years, Kurt.” Father Wagner murmured. A thousand things ran through Kurt’s head.

_Because I’ve been whipped until the muscle was exposed. Because I’ve been caged since I was old enough to walk. Because I’ve been half-starved and shot full of sedatives._

But all he said was “I guess so.” Every time he tried to admit to Father Wagner what had led to him finding his broken body on the church steps four months ago, his chest tightened and his pulse throbbed in his ears. It hurt to stay quiet, but speaking up took courage that he didn’t have.

“I’m not originally from Germany.” Father Wagner said after a moment. “Austria is my homeland. In the year 1943, I was twenty-four and studying to become a physician. I took great pride in the profession. Back then, the Hippocratic Oath was my Ten Commandments.”

“My father died when I was six years old, and my dear mother passed when I was eighteen. It was difficult, but I could make my way by then. My brother Lukas, however, was only thirteen. He couldn’t live alone yet. So, we lived together – us against the world. Our bond grew very strong.”

“I’d met a wonderful girl, Sonja, a year and a half before I lost my mother. As she lay in bed, moments before taking her last breath, she said to me ‘You’d better marry that girl before someone else does.’ At twenty, I did – and we welcomed a beautiful baby girl a year later. We named her Adia.”

“For a couple of peaceful years, it was just the four of us – me, Sonja, baby Adia, and Lukas. My younger brother was a prince among men – gentle, thoughtful, artistic. He painted, wrote poetry, composed music. His only real flaw was that he was always so serious, melancholy even.”

“You remind me a lot of him, Kurt. His gentle soul, his affinity for art – the weight he carried on his chest and never allowed anybody, even me, to help him bear. He _loved_ Adia. Whenever he played with her, I saw the weight lift from his grief-stricken soul. Or, at the very least, ease a little.”

“We were aware of the war, but we didn’t really feel its effects for quite some time. We lived in a small town, and Hitler had no shortage of men. By 1943, however, the war was lasting longer than many of us expected, and I was ordered to the western front to serve as a military surgeon.”

“I was young and foolish. I should’ve fled to Switzerland with my family. Our hometown was nestled at the foot of the Alps; it wasn’t like we had to sneak through miles of Nazi-occupied Austria. But I had great pride in my homeland, and I resented the Nazis for what they’d done to Austria.”

“So I refused to accept my deployment, like the idiotic young man I was. The very next morning, at dawn, we were roused by car engines outside. Hitler’s men had come to collect me, and to make me regret my ‘treason.’ I begged them to punish me and spare my family, but they ignored me.”

“They took Lukas first, and bound his hands, but left him ungagged so I would hear his screams. They rolled a dice to decide how he would die. Five was Lukas’ number, so they disemboweled him with their bayonets. The sight of the blades plunging into his stomach will forever haunt me.”

“My beautiful Sonja was next. The number they rolled for her was three, so they slit her throat. Her breath, it whistled and gurgled, her trachea damaged beyond repair and flooding with her blood. I hear that sound every time I close my eyes. And last of all…. last, they came for Adia.” 

“They’d killed the other members of my family so close together that Lukas was still in the process of dying when they moved on to my wife. But my daughter, they wanted her death to be the most horrific of all. They cut open her little belly, shallowly, so she'd bleed out slowly.”

At that, Father Wagner’s voice cracked. He removed his spectacles and covered his eyes with one hand. Kurt resettled himself so he was nestled closer to the priest’s legs and folded his other hand on top of the one that was already on Father Wagner’s leg, just wanting to be present for him.

Father Wagner smoothed Kurt’s hair out of his eyes with one hand and smiled gratefully at him. He put his spectacles back on with the other and cleared his throat. Tears were streaming freely down his face now, but he didn’t wipe them away, and bravely continued to tell his story.

“Once all three of them were dead, I was taken to Auschwitz in chains. They didn’t intend to kill me, although in my grief I wished they would. No, I was to be Josef Mengele’s personal assistant. I was told that every disobedient action I committed would result in the death of one child.”

“Lord forgive me, I obeyed. At least, for a little while. When I was brought a Romani woman – who was so young, ‘woman’ barely seems appropriate – in the midst of labor and told to cut the child out of her body, I refused. I should’ve been killed on the spot, but I became a prisoner instead.”

“As a prisoner, I did my best to take care of the sick and injured all around me. I delivered babies, although many of them didn’t survive, bound wounds, treated everything from a simple cold to lice to typhoid. After the war, I drifted all over Germany and eventually ended up here.”

“I’d like to say I became a man of the cloth because I felt I had survived Auschwitz for a reason, but in reality, I did it because I was seeking divine forgiveness for the atrocities I witnessed – and did nothing about. It brought me no peace. Not until you came along, my young friend.”

He paused to gently turn Kurt’s arms over, exposing the Latin words carved into his cerulean skin. “I can read Latin, Kurt.” he said softly, tracing the jagged letters. “You are not a monster, nor are you deformed. You are a child of God, made in God’s image, and therefore beautiful.”

Kurt half-smiled at him, wishing he could believe his comforting words. “Why did the flowers from Frau Hoffman upset you?” he asked timidly.

“They are called _edelweiss_.” Father Wagner said gently. “And they are considered by many to be one of the national symbols of Austria. Sonja wore them in her long copper-colored hair the day I married her, they were embroidered on Adia’s christening gown, and Lukas grew them in front of our home."

"There are a lot of memories connected to them…... memories of happier times, memories of when my family was whole. But…. for the first time in almost four decades, I feel I have family. You’ve made me whole again, and for that, I am indescribably grateful.”

He patted Kurt’s hand, his smile genuine this time, and dabbed his tears away with his sleeve. Kurt smiled back, but his mind was elsewhere. _A Romani woman – who was so young, ‘woman’ barely seems appropriate – in the midst of labor._ Could she have possibly been…? No, it couldn’t be.

“Is there any chance you remember that woman’s name? The one who was in labor, the one you refused to do a cesarean on?” he asked.

“Szardos.” Father Wagner whispered, as if the name were a prayer. “Anastasia Szardos. As long as I live, I will never forget that name.”

Kurt’s breath caught in his throat. “Anastasia Szardos…. was my Oma.” he managed to choke out. “And the baby you spared was my mother.”

Father Wagner’s eyes grew wide. He touched Kurt’s scarred cheeks with trembling hands, as if he scarcely believed he were real, then pulled him into a tight hug. “The Lord has forgiven me.” he whispered. “He sent me the son of the baby I spared to mend my broken soul. Oh, my dear Kurt.”

Kurt returned the embrace, eyes wet with tears. Fate was a funny thing, bringing him together with the man who saved his grandmother’s life – and through her, Margali, who in turn saved him. Father Wagner drew back and let out a shaky laugh. “Would you try on these pants?”

“Of course.” Kurt replied, finding himself starting to laugh, too. He picked the half-finished pants up off Father Wagner’s sewing table and left the room for the bathroom, to check if they fit. They did, but only on one leg. The other was still too short, the hem having not been let down yet.

As he put his other pants back on, Kurt happened to glance in the mirror and made a double take. He leaned closer, parting some of his hair to get a better look at what he thought he’d seen. It wasn’t just his imagination – a tiny cluster of hair, near his natural part, was starting to turn _blue._

The tips were still jet-black, like the rest of his hair, but the roots that were growing out of his head were an impossible-to-miss electric blue. Kurt had met people before that dyed their hair odd colors on purpose. Maybe he could say he’d dyed it? Father Wagner wouldn’t buy that.

Kurt fidgeted with the odd-colored hair for a moment longer, turning his head this way and that to examine it from all angles – and realized that there was more, blending with the wavy black hair he was used to seeing. It didn’t look _that_ bad – actually, it looked pretty cool with his blue skin.

For a few minutes, he attempted to smooth his hair down so the black covered the blue, then realized how futile said attempts were. It wasn’t exactly his most jarring feature, but it was impossible not to notice when at ‘conversation distance.’ (He stepped back from the mirror to test that.)

Kurt sighed, gathered up the pants-in-progress, and returned to the other room. “Why so gloomy?” Father Wagner asked without looking up. He really was a perceptive man. “My hair is blue. Well, some of it. Look.” Kurt mumbled, and presented the crown of his head to the priest.

Father Wagner gently picked through the hair around his part for a couple of moments, then chuckled. “Well, you are just full of surprises.” he said, his tone carrying amusement and fondness and not a trace of annoyance. “I adore how unique you are, Kurt. It’s quite refreshing.”

That was the exact opposite of what Kurt expected. “You’re not upset?” he blurted. Father Wagner looked at him over the top of his spectacles. “Please explain to me why I would be upset. Your hair is turning blue. You didn’t kill someone, Kurt. For the millionth time, _I don’t mind_.”

Kurt flung his arms around Father Wagner, startling him. “Thank you!” he exclaimed, and he really meant it. “ _Ach_ , you shouldn’t be thanking me for being a decent human being.” he replied. “Go finish your pillowcase, I’ve kept you from it long enough. Oh, and did the pants fit alright?”

“On the right leg. The left one’s still too short.” Kurt admitted sheepishly. Father Wagner poo-pooed him as he reached for his seamripper again. “All I have to do is let the hem down farther. Not brain surgery.” he said. “Oh, and Kurt? I would love it if you moved the flowers back out front.”

Kurt tilted his head. “I thought it made you sad to look at them.” he said. “It does. I’m not going to lie about that.” Father Wagner agreed. “They will always remind me of the family the Nazis took from me. But they can also be a reminder of the new family we have found in each other.”

 _New family_. Kurt blinked hard to clear his vision as he resumed work on his embroidery. How incredibly lucky he’d been to meet Father Wagner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the bits of shameless fluff in this chapter, because it's the last happiness Kurt will have for quite a bit :)


	6. Ave Maria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO.
> 
> Apparently I haven't posted in almost two months. Which....I am so sorry, I'm an asshole, but March was a little nuts for me (No, I didn't catch the plague. Knock on wood.)
> 
> Not to bore you all with the drama of my personal life, but I speak with a therapist every other week and do occasional check-ins with a psychiatrist, because - surprise! - I have an anxious disorder, panic attacks, and depression. Late last month (via telehealth) my psychiatrist started me on medication, and I've honestly been so wrapped up in the euphoria of feeling like myself again that I spent basically any free time I had outside, enjoying the weather and playing with my dog (She likes seeing her mama with a little more pep in her step, I think) - and thus got virtually no writing done.
> 
> I've also been working on a couple other fics (keep an eye out for those, they'll be on here eventually!) so my work on this one has been spastic at best.
> 
> Now that that's out of the way....
> 
> I wanted to be the one place where no one hears "coronavirus" right now, but I just wanted to say that I hope everybody out there is staying home, staying safe, and staying entertained. I've been self-isolating for about five weeks now. I've watched a couple new movies (which inspired those upcoming fics) and discovered Tom Hardy...the two of those things together have kept me more than occupied. (Being a fangirl is very time-consuming.) 
> 
> ANYWAY.
> 
> The theme for this chapter is "Ave Maria" by Pink - I felt the reference to Hail Mary was fitting.
> 
> Motorcycles in the parking lot  
> Revving their engines and it just wont stop  
> Matches the noise screaming in my head  
> Houston I think we got a problem
> 
> Where does everybody go when they go  
> The go so fast I don't think they know  
> We hate so fast  
> And we love too slow  
> London I think we got a problem
> 
> And when I think about it  
> I just can't think about it  
> I try to drink about it  
> I keep spinning
> 
> Ave Maria  
> Where did you go  
> Where did you go  
> How did you know  
> To get out of a world gone mad  
> Help me let go  
> Of the chaos around me  
> The devil that hounds me  
> I need you to tell me  
> Child be still
> 
> Child be still
> 
> Broken hearts all around the spot  
> I can't help thinking that we lost the plot  
> Suicide bomber and a student shot  
> Tokyo I think we got a problem
> 
> But for that they have got a pill  
> If that don't kill you then the side effects will  
> If we don't kill each other then the side effects will  
> Cape Town I think we got a problem
> 
> Ave Maria  
> Where did you go  
> Where did you go  
> How did you know  
> To get out of a world gone mad  
> Help me let go  
> Of the chaos around me  
> The devil that hounds me  
> I need you to tell me  
> Child be still
> 
> If the darkest hour comes  
> Before the light  
> Where is the light  
> Where is the light
> 
> If the darkest hour comes  
> Before the light  
> Where is the light  
> Where is the light  
> Where is the light, yeah
> 
> Ave Maria  
> Where did you go  
> Where did you go  
> How did you know  
> To get out of a world gone mad  
> Help me let go  
> Of the chaos around me  
> The devil that hounds me  
> I need you to tell me  
> Child be still
> 
> Child be still  
> Child be still

February 1983

So much had changed. Kurt had changed. He was sixteen years old now, standing proudly at six-two, and he hadn’t cut himself in three months. On his sixteenth birthday, he stood before the mirror, forcing himself to look at his body, his face – _all_ of it, the good and the bad and the ugly. Every crooked groove from the bite of the whip, every raised line from shards of broken glass, the way his collarbones still created a little bowl where his neck met his shoulder, the way the pointed tips of his ears protruded from beneath his black hair. And he added one last mark.

Honestly, he’d thought that he would be dead by now. Sixteen felt like a big milestone for a boy who hadn’t expected to live to see his teen years. So in the milky gray light of dawn, he stood before the mirror and stuck the shard under his skin, one last time. This would be his turning point. Along the underside of his right collarbone, Kurt carefully etched out “sedecim,” the Latin word for his new age. Along the underside of the left, he carved “nunquam iterum,” meaning “never again.” They blended into the sigils, not easily noticed by an outsider, but that was fine with Kurt.

The new markings didn’t escape the sharp gaze of Father Wagner, however, who glanced at him as they sat down to breakfast together. “Does sixteen hold significance for you?” he asked. Kurt looked away, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and wishing he’d buttoned it fully. “Well, I’m sixteen today.” he murmured. “And this morning I swore that sixteen would be different than fifteen or fourteen, and not just because of different circumstances. I vowed that this would be the last time I ever hurt myself, and these final wounds would serve as a reminder of that.”

“It’s your birthday?” Father Wagner asked. Kurt nodded. “Well, I’m pretty sure it is. When my mother found me, my umbilical cord was still fresh, so she figured I’d most likely been born the day before – which is today.” He ducked his head, slightly ashamed to admit he’d been a foundling. “And your mother – she is, ah, the same as you?” Father Wagner asked. Kurt shook his head. “The one that raised me, no. She’s normal-looking. As for my birth mother, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her. There was no letter with me. I don’t think she even gave me a name.”

Father Wagner folded his hands on the table. “Moses was a foundling, remember? His birth mother sent him down a river, just like yours did. I’m sure he thought she hadn’t wanted him, but that wasn’t at all true. Moses’ mother gave him up to save his life. She loved him very much.” Kurt blew a puff of air to ruffle his sideswept half bangs. Sabine Weidner, a parishioner and a cosmetologist, had recently given him a new haircut. Instead of a mop of curls, it was shorter on the sides and back, save for a cheekbone-length fringe that often fell across his right eye. He liked it.

“Now, now, Kurt. Don’t you get all ‘teenager’ on me.” Father Wagner said, sternness leaking into his tone. “I understand feeling bitter sometimes, but don’t allow hatred into your heart. Your birth mother did what she believed was best for you. Don’t let your golden heart grow hard, son.” When Kurt still didn’t reply, didn’t meet his eyes, Father Wagner laid one hand on top of his. “Forgive me, my child.” he murmured. “There is much I still don’t know about you. Where you’ve been, or what you’ve endured. It isn’t my place to judge you. All I can do is offer you love and support.” 

It was mid-February now, and though the nights were still freezing cold, sometimes the afternoon was warm enough to hint at the coming spring. Kurt had lived here for a year – and lord, he was thriving. His body was all lean muscle, his skin a rich dark blue and his hair glossy with health. The parishioners felt like family, almost as much as Father Wagner did. He knew all about their extended families and friends, their struggles with illness and misfortune. He’d witnessed four weddings; two of them had led to the baptism of a tiny bundle of life several months later.

Kurt did most of the physical work to keep the church looking its best, but he didn’t mind. It was easy for him, and Father Wagner was so appreciative of his help that any splinters or bruises he received were well worth it. Besides, Father Wagner tended to any injuries he received. Kurt saw how his eyes lingered on the heavily scarred parts of his skin, both self-inflicted and flogging scars alike, saw the unspoken questions running through his mind. He tried to tell his friend about the circus, but every time he began, his throat felt like it was coated in sawdust. 

On the night of Christmas Eve, the parishioners dressed in their finest and cheerfully filed into the church for midnight Mass. The excitement, especially from the little ones, was palpable. Each person was given a candle to hold during the service, filling the church with golden light. Father Wagner stood at the pulpit in his best cassock, his eyes aglow with love and joy as he delivered his sermon. Kurt, in his nicest pair of dark gray slacks and a deep red button-down shirt, sat beside the pulpit with his candle in his hands, enjoying the warm and happy atmosphere.

At the end of the service, all the parishioners rose for the closing hymn, including Kurt. He flipped through his hymnal until he found the page Father Wagner asked everyone to open to, but the title stopped him dead. Of all the hymns they could sing tonight, why did it have to be this one? The organ was cuing up, and everyone was looking at him expectantly. With his soft, pure voice, he’d been leading the choir and the parish in hymns all night, but the sight of this title had turned his tongue to lead. The organ music faded from his ears as he seemed to travel back in time.

_“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,_  
_Alles schläft; einsam wacht,_  
_Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,_  
_Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar,_  
_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,_  
_Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh.”_

_Kurt whimpered in pain as Margali gently sponged the blood off his back, his body shuddering with sobs, tears dripping from one temple to the floor. Her voice permeated the haze of agony and blood loss, angelic in spite of how it trembled with repressed tears. “My sweet Kurt.” she whispered between verses. “My beautiful boy. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”_

_Kurt was crying too hard to tell her how wrong she was, that she was the best mother anyone could ask for, that he loved her more than anything. The water from the cloth trickled deep into the most brutal of his wounds, and he cried out, his breath so rapid and shallow that he thought he was about to pass out. He blindly groped behind him for his mother’s hand, desperate for something to ground him, to reassure him he wasn’t dying._

_His mother laced her fingers through his, whispering “Sssh, sssh, sssh.” and stroking his hair with her free hand. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here.” Kurt gasped for breath, his small body drenched in cold sweat and blood. When will I be free? he thought. When will this be just a bad memory? His mother, sensing the sobs beginning to rack his slender ribcage again, resumed singing, her soft, soothing voice sounding to Kurt like an angel._

_“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht,_  
_Hirten erst kundgemacht,_  
_Durch der Engel Halleluja,_  
_Tönt es laut von fern und nah,_  
_Christ, der Retter ist da._  
_Christ, der Retter ist da.”_

Kurt snapped out of the memory, his mother’s voice fading from his ears. Father Wagner was gazing at him with patient eyes, and the organist, Frau Zimmer, was drawing out the intro to buy him time. Kurt blinked, watching the gentle smiles of the parishioners come back into focus. “Take your time, Kurt.” Father Wagner said softly, and Frau Zimmer glanced up from her sheet music to flash him an encouraging smile. Thinking he had a beautiful voice, she’d spent months trying to convince Kurt to sing tonight, and her faith in him had remained unwavering. 

Yes, he was tight-lipped about what he’d been through, but he knew his jumpy behavior when he first wound up in Father Wagner’s care had had all the hallmarks of someone who’d been abused, and to see their patient expressions as he reoriented himself made his throat tight with emotion. He took a steadying breath, blinking away bittersweet tears, and smiled at the family he’d found. He closed the hymnal, not needing the paper; the words were etched on his heart. Closing his eyes and letting the organ music swell around him, Kurt inhaled deeply and began to sing.

As everyone filed out of the church, many carrying their sleepy children, several people had said how beautiful his singing had been that night. Frau Hoffman grasped his arm, her face wet with tears, and whispered “My dear Kurt, you sounded as if you had one foot in heaven tonight.” But as wonderful as Christmas Eve had been, the day itself was better. Father Wagner didn’t hold a service that year, as they’d woken up to a churchyard buried in four feet of snow. Kurt had never been allowed to play in the snow before, so he spent all morning sledding down the hill.

When he finally came in at noon, his face bright purple from the cold, Father Wagner had apple strudel fresh from the oven on the dining table. The gentle priest’s pale blue eyes were shining through the entire meal, leading Kurt to suspect his closest friend had something up his sleeve. He did – a present for Kurt. It was a music box, only a few inches long, operated with a tiny hand crank. Its delicate silver innards were housed inside a teardrop-shaped wooden box, covered in scrollwork carvings. When he turned the crank, “Stille Nacht” came out in soft tinkly notes. 

He looked up at Father Wagner through blurry eyes, unable to speak. Father Wagner was beaming at him, obviously delighted by his reaction. “I made it myself.” he said. “Lukas taught me how. Our house was full of the music boxes he made. When I saw how ‘Stille Nacht’ affected you……...” Kurt cut him off with a fierce hug, barely containing the sobs that racked his body. Father Wagner had probably been up all night making this gift. He hadn’t explained what the song meant to him, but Father Wagner knew it meant _something,_ and made this so he could carry it with him.

He’d made a gift for Father Wagner as well: a quilt, about six feet long by four feet wide, with a large edelweiss blossom in the center and smaller blossoms decorating the edge. The lyrics of the Austrian national anthem marched around the border in elegant stitching. He was quite proud of it. Father Wagner’s reaction didn’t disappoint – he stared at the quilt for a moment with eyes the size of saucers, then held it to his chest and wept. “Where on earth did you learn the Austrian anthem?” he asked in awe. “Frau Hoffman.” Kurt replied proudly. “She wrote the lyrics down for me.”

Their dinner consisted of carp fried in butter and steamed vegetables, with something called Sachertorte – which, Kurt would discover, was a rich dark chocolate cake decorated in a shimmering glaze – and of course plenty of Christmas cookies, which they’d baked together a few days ago. What a fun afternoon that had been – Kurt spilled the flour and expected to be scolded, but instead Father Wagner scooped up a handful of the now-useless powder and tossed it at him. They’d hurled it at each other for several minutes, making a huge mess and laughing their heads off.

That night, Kurt laid in bed turning the little crank and listening to the soft, tinkling notes of his mother’s favorite lullaby. He was happy here, with Father Wagner and the parishioner, and the flowers and the trees, but he ached to feel his mother’s arms around him, or to hear her voice. He finally put the music box on his bedside table and let his head rest on the pillow. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was warm tonight, if she and Stefan and Jimaine had had enough to eat at dinner. “Merry Christmas, Mother. Stefan. Jimaine.” he whispered to the room. “Wherever you are.”

He was sitting in his favorite tree overlooking the churchyard on a mild and sunny day in February, absentmindedly turning the little crank, when he heard an unfamiliar engine in the distance. He could see a cloud of dust down the road; whoever it was, they were gunning it. “Father Wagner?” he called nervously, to his friend down below, who was sweeping the front steps. The priest straightened and peered up at Kurt, then gazed in the direction the latter was pointing. “Kurt? Inside, please.” he said after a moment. His voice was calm, but carried a hint of worry.

Whenever a stranger came to the church, Father Wagner preferred Kurt to stay out of view, just in case it was someone who would report him. Kurt shut his eyes, pictured himself in his room, and with a now-familiar _snap-pop,_ he was sitting on his bed, where he remained for a moment. When he heard the engine rumble up the path and cut right in front of the church, Kurt got off his bed and crossed to the window, pulling back one of the curtains just enough to peek outside. The vehicle, a white van, had halted in front of the church, and two men were getting out of it.

As soon as he saw them, Kurt’s stomach churned. They had “trouble” written all over them. One was tall and muscular, with a shaved head and a lot of scars; the other was shorter and had a slighter build, but his demeanor was that of someone who had full confidence in his abilities. The smaller man was clad in a long black dress coat and leather gloves, but Kurt wasn’t fooled by that; he was clearly anything but a gentleman. The larger man was in camouflage BDU bottoms and a tan trench coat, two lumps in it right where the inside pockets would be. He was armed.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” Father Wagner said, his tone polite but wary. “Good afternoon.” the smaller man replied in an elegant Swiss accent, closing the van’s door behind him and strolling up to the church steps. “Let’s not stand on ceremony, shall we? I hear you are a very busy man.” With his usual quiet dignity, Father Wagner said “I’m a man of the cloth. I have my duties, yes, but I always have time for anyone who needs me.” Now the petite Swiss man smiled, but it was a smile of cruelty and greed. “Tell me, then, why do you raise a freakish child as if it were your own?”

Kurt didn’t have to be in front of his father/friend to know the exact expression he would be currently making. His jaw would set, his mouth would tighten, and his normally gentle blue eyes would flash with anger. “There is no 'freak' here.” he said in a low voice. “Good day, gentlemen.” All Kurt could do was watch in horror as his friend turned on his heel and strode towards the door, watch in horror as the small Swiss man with the chilling smile and the elegant accent pulled an antique revolver from inside his coat and shot Father Wagner three times in the back.

“NOOOOOOOOO!!!” Kurt screamed, and both men’s heads snapped up. “There it is! Up there!” the Swiss man shouted, dashing toward the door. Father Wagner would’ve told him to run, but all Kurt could think about was the three gunshots, the sight of the priest collapsing to the stone. Kurt ran down the stairs, the two men that would be waiting for him there not even crossing his mind until he slammed into the bigger one. “Grab it! Grab it!” the Swiss man hollered, while the brute struggled to get ahold of both of Kurt’s arms. Kurt was slender, but far from weak.

“Father! Father!” Kurt screamed, hot tears streaking his face as he writhed about in the large man’s rough grip. He managed to catch a glimpse of the priest’s body, loosely crumpled on his side, in a rapidly widening pool of dark red blood. Then, a sack was forced over his head. “Careful, it’s a slippery little bastard.” the Swiss man said, his voice muffled by the sack, as Kurt continued to thrash, his tail lashing madly behind him. The sharp pinch of a needle in his neck made him bristle, and then a familiar heaviness began spreading throughout his body.

Kurt wailed, feebly struggling, as the powerful tranquilizer took effect. The larger man’s calloused hands were dragging Kurt’s arms behind him, tightly binding his wrists with rough, thick rope. “Bind its ankles, too.” the smaller man ordered him. “And its tail. Careful, the spade is sharp.” Kurt’s limbs felt like lead, his tail drooping to the ground to coil uselessly around his feet. “Put it in the van.” the Swiss man’s voice drifted through the fog that clouded Kurt’s mind. He felt himself being lifted off the floor and carried, heard a van door opening, and remembered nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who suggested lullabies - they will be used later! I'm not dissing you guys by using something else ;)
> 
> My choice for this particular chapter may not be typically used as a lullaby, but some of my earliest memories are of my mother singing it to me - including at my hospital bedside when I was a critically ill little girl. Silent Night is a very precious song to me, so when I discovered it's originally German, I had to use it.


	7. Deliver Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's been months. I'm so sorry. It's been a very difficult summer. My beloved grandfather has been in and out of the hospital battling pneumonia (yes, they did test him for Covid - twice - and it was negative both times). He was on oxygen and had a visiting nurse from May until July, and the anxiety coupled with an issue regarding my medication eventually caused me to become ill. I battled constant nausea, vertigo, and joint pain for the second half of July and the first half of August, and at one point fell down the back stairs of my house (they're concrete, by the way). Even when I felt well enough to write, inspiration refused to come.
> 
> My grandfather is doing better, and my medication dosage has been adjusted. I'm finally feeling like myself again and was able to finish the chapter. I know this is a bit of a heavy one; things will be looking up soon, I promise. I'll do my best not to take so long to update this time, but school comes first.
> 
> The theme for this chapter is "My Heart Is Broken" by Evanescence. It was inspired by Amy Lee's experience working with survivors of human trafficking. I urge you all to give it a listen - it's very raw and heartbreakingly beautiful.
> 
> I will wander till the end of time  
> Torn away from you...
> 
> I pulled away to face the pain  
> I close my eyes and drift away  
> Over the fear
> 
> That I will never find a way  
> To heal my soul  
> And I will wander till the end of time  
> Torn away from you
> 
> My heart is broken  
> Sweet sleep, my dark angel  
> Deliver us  
> From sorrow's hold
> 
> Oh, from my heart...heart
> 
> I can't go on living this way  
> And I can't go back the way I came  
> Chained to this fear
> 
> That I will never find a way  
> To heal my soul  
> And I will wander till the end of time  
> Half alive without you
> 
> My heart is broken  
> Sweet sleep, my dark angel  
> Deliver us
> 
> Change  
> Open your eyes to the light  
> I denied it oh so long, oh so long
> 
> Say goodbye  
> Goodbye
> 
> My heart is broken  
> Release me  
> I can't hold on  
> Deliver us
> 
> My heart is broken  
> Sweet sleep, my dark angel  
> Deliver us
> 
> My heart is broken  
> Sweet sleep, my dark angel  
> Deliver us  
> From sorrow's hold

Kurt was jerked from a thick, empty sleep by the slam of the van door. His limbs felt heavy; dragging his head upright was like lifting a boulder. “Hurry up, get it out of there before it wakes up.” the Swiss man hissed. A bolt of fear shot down Kurt’s spine, the fog of tranquilizers beginning to dissipate as he remembered what had happened. Panic seizing his mind, he began to struggle against the ropes, but they had been switched to plastic ties while he was unconscious. _Breathe, Kurt. Breathe. Think._

Kurt forced himself to still his quivering muscles, the drugs still clouding his mind and weakening his body. _Focus._ _Imagine yourself in the church. Father Wagner needs you to be strong. To find him and take care of him, as he once took care of you. There might still be time if you get out **now.**_ Kurt closed his eyes tightly and pictured the church. He pictured the silver-blue ceiling he’d painted himself, the cherrywood altar with its goblet and bread-dish, the low creak of decades-old floorboards beneath his feet as he padded up the aisle to put out the candles for the night.

He’d done it a thousand times – teleporting from the floor to the rafters, from one tree to the next, popping up all throughout the churchyard while he tended to the sprigs of forget-me-nots he planted on each grave. But instead of the hiss and snap he usually heard, his eardrums were assaulted by a violent buzzing sound. Seconds later, every nerve in Kurt’s body screamed out as if they were being shredded. His muscle fibers clenched and spasmed until they felt as if they would tear in half.

The smell of smoke hung thick in the air when it finally stopped. Kurt lay loosely curled on his side, his entire body shuddering and twitching with residual electricity, sucking air into his burning lungs. He reached up with one trembling hand to finger the heavy iron collar that had evidently been locked around his neck while he was unconscious. _A shock collar?_

The coarse chuckle of the larger man filled Kurt’s ears, and the sack was ripped off his head. Kurt blinked, blinded by the flashlight the petite man with the smooth accent and the leather gloves was shining in his face. “Do you like my new toy?” the Swiss man said, his tone dripping with smugness and cruelty. “Bought them off some creepy Russian bastard – two crates full. Cost me a fortune, but they’re worth their weight in gold. Painstakingly designed to sense, lock onto, and suppress mutant powers. So don’t try your little disappearing act, unless you want another shock.”

Panic welled up from Kurt’s belly and lodged somewhere in his throat. His eyes were burning with tears, no matter how hard he fought them. “What do you want from me?” he whispered, struggling to keep his chin from quivering. A single tear slipped past the barrier and dripped off the end of his nose, his bound hands preventing him from brushing it away. “I don’t have any money to give you, and I don’t know anyone who does – no one that would care enough to pay, anyway. I’m the son of a gypsy.”

“A gypsy, you say? We met a gypsy at the freak show, didn’t we, Felix?” the Swiss man purred, and the brute let out another rough chuckle. “Lovely woman, she was. Cloud of dark auburn hair, striking green eyes, smooth olive skin……and her scent was intoxicating, wasn’t it, Felix?” Kurt was trembling with anger now, the desire to protect his family outweighing his fear. “How dare you speak of my mother so shamefully!” he snarled, his voice coming out more forcefully than he expected it to.

The Swiss man raised his eyebrows. “Your mother? Well, that would certainly explain why she was so protective of you. No amount of Felix’s persuasion would convince her to betray you….it was admirable, really. In the end, we had to turn to a less stoic target – a young gypsy woman, blond hair, about yea high? She buckled under pressure, poor thing.” _Jimaine!_ “WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!” Kurt roared. The mental image of his sister’s massive blue eyes widening with pain and filling with tears stirred something inside him, unleashed the monster he’d always feared.

Then his body was flooded with blinding pain again, his muscles seizing, his head slamming against the metal floor of the van as he convulsed. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Felix asked, the first time Kurt had heard him speak. As the electricity faded from his body, allowing his muscles to unclench, Kurt saw the little remote vanish back into the pocket of Felix’s BDUs. “Oh, I’m certain it does, Felix. But not as badly as this.” the Swiss man crooned, removing something from his inner coat pocket with a flourish.

Kurt flinched, expecting a syringe or a knife or that horrid antique pistol, but it was a long, delicate chain made of white gold, a chain with a very familiar blueish fang dangling from it. The Swiss man held it aloft from his leather-clad fingers, smiling as if remembering a pleasant experience. “She was so beautiful, especially when she would scream.” he purred, and tossed the dire wolf fang at Kurt’s feet. It was stained a rusty brown, the sight of what Kurt knew was his mother’s dried blood searing itself into his memory. His ears were ringing, his vision blurring out, the deep and visceral emotions of anger and grief clamping down on him so tightly that he thought he would pass out. He could faintly hear his own cries, could feel himself clawing at his face and chest and tearing at his hair, smelled when his sobs forced him to vomit, and vomit, and vomit again.

He could still hear, and feel, and smell, but none of the information those senses were transmitting was really sinking in. His world had shrunk to the size of an old heirloom necklace; the splatter of blood across the fang and coating the chain were the only things that his eyes would focus on. His mother was dead. Now he knew everything in the world was over.

FOUR MONTHS LATER  
  


East Berlin

_“The sun will come out_

_Tomorrow_

_Bet your bottom dollar_

_That tomorrow_

_There’ll be sun_

_Just thinking about_

_Tomorrow_

_Clears away the cobwebs_

_And the sorrow_

_‘Til there’s none_

_When I’m stuck in a day_

_That’s gray_

_And lonely_

_I just stick out my chin_

_And grin_

_And say_

_The sun will come out_

_Tomorrow_

_So you gotta hold on_

_‘Til tomorrow_

_Come what may”_

The soft, mournful voice of a young American child drifted up to the lonely rafters of the musty old barn and permeated the gray air of dusk; even though she was in the next cage over, her voice sounded faraway. Kurt flicked one ear in her direction almost without conscious thought. Vestigial ear movement was one of his more instinct-driven peculiarities; if he was feeling unsafe, they ran on autopilot, pivoting and rotating in every direction to triangulate the faintest of sounds. Since the girl’s voice was a familiar sound, the reflexive movement quickly settled down.

Kurt stretched and eased himself to a crouch, a position that, for him, was actually quite comfortable and easy to maintain. The faint thrum of house music was already beginning to seep through the cracked boards that made up the barn walls; their nightly torment would soon begin. The soft clink of chains echoed eerily in the relative silence of the barn as the girl’s voice stirred the others awake. The heavy chains that connected Kurt’s shackled legs to the back wall of his cage scraped against the floor as he approached the bars, and he could hear the others doing the same.

The girl was sitting in the back corner of her cage, her bony legs drawn to her chest and her frail hands worrying at the stained hem of her skirt. A curtain of dark hair obscured most of her face from view, except for one piercing silver eye. She couldn’t have been older than nine or ten. Kurt inched closer to the bars. “What’s your name, little one?” he asked. The girl slowly tilted her chin up, her visage remaining hidden behind her matted hair. She studied Kurt’s face for an uncomfortably long time, so long that he began to shiver under the gaze of that eerie silver eye.

“Lilith.” she finally whispered, her speaking voice jarringly different from her singing voice. It was a harsh, low rasp, not like the voice of any other adolescent girl Kurt had known. Her one visible eye blinked sporadically. “I’m in here because I hurt people. But I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.” Kurt felt a chill run up his back. “What did you do to them?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. Lilith’s body began to shudder, her head and neck twitching violently. “I smiled.” she rasped. “I smiled.”

Without warning, she began to convulse, her head and limbs slamming against the bars and floor of her cage. High-pitched, tortured screams tore from her throat, and Kurt stumbled back, clapping his hands over his ears. “IT HURTS! IT _HURTS!”_ Lilith shrieked, her arms and legs beginning to dislocate themselves and bend in the wrong directions, ghastly snapping and clicking emitting from the joints as they twisted. With a revolting crunch, her jaw tore free of its socket, reducing her screams to gurgling moans as blood leaked from her torn facial tissue.

Kurt screamed and cowered against the back of his cage as Lilith’s body began to unfold, every bone creaking and snapping as she lurched out of the corner on all fours. Her back was violently arched, her limbs bent at grotesque angles until she somewhat resembled a spider. Her jaw was nearly scraping the ground; she moaned and grunted inbetween each raspy breath. Her silver eyes, now riddled with popped blood vessels, rolled violently in her skull as she scuttled awkwardly towards the wall where the two cages joined. Lacing her spindly fingers through the bars, she pressed her misshapen visage to the largest gap she could find, hissing in frustration upon realizing she was unable to fit through it.

 _“Hungry.”_ the monstrosity snarled, one eye rolling forward to fix on him. Kurt was paralyzed with fear; when Lilith opened her jaws even further and ripped three of the bars clean off the cage’s frame, all he could do was scream and curl into a tighter ball. Lilith turned her head sideways, her limbs twisting in all manner of revolting angles, and climbed through the gap she’d just made – into Kurt’s cage. Her fingernails scraped against the cage floor as she slithered through the hole, joints snapping back into place as she unfolded again. _“Want food… …want food **now**.”_

She lunged at him, unhinging her jaw further as if to swallow him whole. Kurt barely had time to raise his arms before her teeth were clamping down on the crown of his head until he thought his skull would crack. Panic clouded his thoughts as he desperately scrabbled at her face in a vain attempt to free himself, blood dripping into his eyes as Lilith’s fangs tore long, jagged gashes into his scalp. “Someone help me!” he screamed, though he doubted anyone would come even if they could hear his cries. Just as his vision was beginning to blur, Lilith emitted a strangled roar and dropped Kurt entirely, scuttling backwards as if she’d been burned.

Kurt scrambled to his feet, backing away from the monster, who now sat crouched in the corner. Her rasping breath had become more labored, two silver eyes glaring at Kurt from the shadows where she crouched. Kurt pressed against the cold iron bars behind him as hard as he could and tried to calm his racing heart. _What did I do?_ he wondered. As the initial adrenaline high began to ebb, sensation returning to his limbs, Kurt became aware of a familiar warm wetness on his skin, and looked down at himself to see that the end of his tail was coated in Lilith’s blood.

He glanced back up at the silver eyes of the monster, whose harsh pants were growing louder, then back down at his tail – and noticed, for the first time, that the spade at the end was covered in dozens of tiny hooks. Kurt relaxed a muscle he hadn’t even realized was tensed, and watched in disbelief as the hooks sank down to lie flat against the spade, like a porcupine lowering its quills. “Aaahhh….” came a moan from the corner, and Kurt snapped his head up to see that the monster was turning back into a petite adolescent girl, her side ripped open from armpit to hipbone.

“Lilith?” he whispered, horrified at what he’d done. When the girl didn’t move or make another sound, he scrambled across the cage on all fours to help her. Lilith’s entire torso shuddered with the effort it took to draw each breath, her silver eyes staring glassily up at the ceiling. The stench of blood was strong enough to make Kurt gag, and the glimpse of a rib between two flaps of torn skin nearly pushed his nausea over the edge. Swallowing the bile in the back of his throat, Kurt pressed both hands over the wound in an attempt to staunch the blood squirting from it.

“Lilith, please.” he whimpered, watching the color drain from her face and her eyes grow unfocused. “I’m…sorry…didn’t…mean…to hurt…you.” she rasped out, the film of blood on her lips sloughing off as she spoke. Her breath rattled in and out one more time, and then her chest stilled. Panic shot through every fiber of Kurt’s body, and he shifted his hands to her chest to begin compressions, just as Father Wagner had taught him. “No, no, Lilith, no. Open your eyes. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Kurt panted, his arms continuing their rhythmic up-and-down motion even as he felt her ribs begin to crack. “NO! Breathe, damnit!” he wailed.

The barn door slammed open, the neon light from the arena pouring in. “What the hell is going on in here?” Felix demanded, stomping over to Kurt’s cage to rattle the bars. Kurt didn’t even glance up, his desperation to save Lilith outweighing the fear of a beating. He still didn’t glance up when Felix’s keys clanked in the lock, or when the hinges of the door squealed in protest of being used. “How the hell did she get in here?” Felix demanded, grabbing Kurt by the hair. “What the fuck did you do?” Kurt’s tail lashed almost of its own accord, and Felix released his hair and doubled over in pain. “OW!! You devil!! I’ll teach you to fight back!!” he roared, the hand that wasn’t clamped firmly over the gash in his chest plunging into his pocket and withdrawing that awful little silver remote.

Electricity once again flooded Kurt’s body, clenching his muscles until the pain was white-hot. He didn’t just smell smoke this time, he saw it. Gray clouds of it, floating off the singed fabric of his clothing, the skin beneath it turning grayish-purple as it blistered. As he lay on his side trying to catch his breath, two more large men dressed the same as Felix came into the cage, one to help Felix and the other to take Lilith away. “NO!” Kurt screamed, desperately grabbing at the second one’s ankle. “She needs help! She’s still alive, you can save her!” he begged, on the verge of hysterics. The Kevlar-clad man glared at him, cocking his large booted foot to deliver a kick to Kurt’s head, and everything went black.

When Kurt finally awoke, it was dark and quiet in the barn, and he was alone in his cage. His clothes were stiff with blood, his head pounding, his eyes burning with tears. The hole Lilith had made had been patched, but they hadn’t bothered to clean up the stain of her blood on the floor. Kurt dragged himself to all fours and crawled over to the thin mattress in the corner of the cage, gingerly laying down on the side that didn’t ache.

His head was throbbing, and all he wanted was to sleep the pain away, but every time he closed his eyes, Lilith was there. Her jaw unhinging, her limbs twisting, her bones glistening amongst the flaps of torn flesh. Kurt gazed down at his hands, drying blood coating the palms and caked under his fingernails. A shiver wracked his body, and he felt like puking.

_“I’m…sorry…didn’t…mean…to hurt…you.”_

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut until green spots bloomed behind the lids, but that just made Lilith’s unseeing silver eyes float to the surface again. Kurt tucked his knees up to his chest and buried his face in the crook of his arm to muffle his sobs. He deserved to be in a cage, kept contained like the animal he was. Maybe it was a good thing that he would never see his mother again. If she learned what he’d done, what he truly was, she would never kiss him on the forehead or call him her beautiful boy, never sing him to sleep, never run her fingers through his hair again – because she would finally see him for what he’d always been: a monster.

With one trembling hand, Kurt pulled the music box from Father Wagner out from the neck of his shirt, held it to his chest, and turned the crank. As the soft, tinkling notes floated all around him, the steel grip of grief threatened to strangle him. Father Wagner was dead, Margali was dead, and for the first time in Kurt’s young life, he was well and truly alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that was a dark one, but fear not, my lovelies - next chapter will include the X-men!
> 
> I have multiple other fanfictions that I've been working on-and-off, and I intend to post some of them eventually. For that reason, I've been considering a username change - something that doesn't tie me to any specific fandom, so I can express my love for multiple fandoms without feeling "disloyal." Suggestions are welcome - ya girl loves moody and romantic aesthetics (dark rose aesthetic, dark ballet dancer/ballet shoe aesthetic, dark snowscape aesthetic, anything related to wolves and ravens, something involving the moon or the night sky in a different way - you get the idea). No pressure, of course, I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up and maybe the chance to weigh in before I spring a name change on you! It's awful when you find a fic or author you really like, and four months later you desperately enter various combinations of keywords to no avail (totally not speaking from experience here).
> 
> See you guys soon! :)


	8. Stop and Stare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!!!
> 
> What a month November has been so far - I don't know about the rest of you, but I spent election week in the fetal position, softly whimpering to myself. Oh, and if you heard screams of jubilant relief coming from the East Coast when the result was announced, that was me :D
> 
> Anyways...
> 
> This was an exciting chapter to write! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it. I debated making it a little longer, but I felt that you guys had waited long enough.
> 
> The theme of this one is "Stop and Stare" by OneRepublic. I listened to it on loop while working on this chapter. In my mind, it's a song about looking back on your life so far, especially as you age (although mutants don't seem to really age physically, I imagine spending 50, 60, 70-plus years on earth would produce the same sort of mental weariness either way) and realizing there are a lot of things you wish you'd done or said - or, if you're like me, things you wish you HADN'T done or said. Either way, it's definitely a song that makes you reflect.
> 
> This town is colder now  
> I think it's sick of us  
> It's time to make our move  
> I'm shaking off the rust  
> I've got my heart set  
> On anywhere but here  
> I'm staring down myself  
> Counting up the years
> 
> Steady hands, just take the wheel  
> And every glance is killing me  
> Time to make one last appeal  
> For the life I lead
> 
> Stop and stare  
> I think I'm moving, but I go nowhere  
> Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared  
> But I've become what I can't be, oh  
> Stop and stare  
> You start to wonder why you're here, not there  
> And you'd give anything to get what's fair  
> But fair ain't what you really need  
> Oh, can you see what I see?
> 
> They're trying to come back, all my senses push  
> Untie the weight bags, I never thought I could  
> Steady feet, don't fail me now  
> I'mma run 'til you can't walk  
> Something pulls my focus out  
> And I'm standing down
> 
> Stop and stare  
> I think I'm moving, but I go nowhere  
> Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared  
> But I've become what I can't be, oh  
> Stop and stare  
> You start to wonder why you're here, not there  
> And you'd give anything to get what's fair  
> But fair ain't what you really need  
> Oh, you don't need
> 
> What you need, what you need
> 
> Stop and stare  
> I think I'm moving, but I go nowhere  
> Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared  
> But I've become what I can't be  
> Oh, do you see what I see?

June 1983

West Germany

Raven stood before the mirror without a scrap of fabric to conceal her from anything – including and especially herself. She looked the same as she did when she was seventeen, save for one thing: when the light struck her skin at the right angle, she could faintly see a dozen vertical grooves on her lower belly, the battle scars that marked her as a mother. _That boy is sixteen years old, as of last November. God, he’s nearly grown. What does he look like? Does he still have my eyes? Does he ever wonder about the woman that birthed him? Does he hate me for giving him away?_

Raven blinked hard to bring her image in the mirror back into focus. “That boy isn’t yours. Never was.” she told her reflection. “Let him go.” Two golden eyes stared back at her. She blinked again, a soft pale blue overtaking the yellow. Then her skin began to ripple, smoothing over its scales like spackle over an old pockmarked wall, the deep cerulean tone fading to pinkish-ivory. Her short auburn hair bloomed out of her scalp in tawny blond waves, pouring past her shoulders till it reached her ribs. She was a normal woman now, just another weary soul beaten down by twenty-two years of division and nearly four decades of postwar poverty.

Raven gently cupped her flat lower belly with both hands for a moment; the stretch marks had vanished alongside the blue skin and yellow eyes. She lifted her chin, checking her reflection for overlooked mutant traits, then turned her back on the mirror and the memories within. Her shift was in half an hour; she didn’t have time to dwell on the past right now. She tugged the blinds closed, laced herself into the skimpy purple dress and heeled black boots she wore to work (she waitressed at a somewhat sleazy nightclub) and had one foot out the door when the phone rang.

The sound was so alien that Raven fumbled her keys and dropped them. For ten years, she’d been all over Europe, never remaining anywhere for longer than a couple of months. She used false names, never letting anyone get close to her, living in constant anxiety of blowing her cover. For ten years, the world had known that mutants weren’t just a myth. That mutants were living not just alongside humans, but among them, blending in. That their roommate could be a mutant, for all they knew. Raven had been here for eight months; longer than she usually stayed, but not long enough for someone to have tracked her down……right?

Raven grabbed the receiver almost out of reflex, immediately realized how stupid a decision that was, and was about to hang up when the sound of a deep, musical, painfully familiar voice sent electricity down her spine. “Hello?” Erik Lehnsherr, one of the only people in the world that she truly cared about anymore, rumbled in her ear. Raven opened her mouth to reply, but the words refused to come out. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Erik’s voice came through the receiver again. “Y-yes. I’m here, I’m here.” she finally stammered out as the initial shock loosened its grip on her.

“Raven.” Erik breathed her name, the tenderness in his voice raising goosebumps on her scalp. “I didn’t think you’d pick up…how are you?” Raven sank to the floor, sitting with her back to the wall like a teenager. Showing up for her shift on time no longer felt important; Erik’s voice was a balm to her weary soul, and no amount of money could tempt her to cut this phone call short. “I…I’m doing alright, I’m hanging in there.” she said, smiling into the mouthpiece as she spoke. It was the first time in months, possibly years, that she’d smiled unconsciously. It felt good.

“I’m relieved to hear that, Raven. I was worried about you.” Erik replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. “I’ve missed you.” she whispered. “It’s been lonely, without you. Without Angel and Emma.” Erik sighed into the mouthpiece, sounding as exhausted as Raven felt, and she immediately felt a twinge of guilt. “Don’t blame yourself, Erik.” she quickly added. “You were on the run from half the damn planet.” Erik chuckled softly, eliciting more goosebumps to wash over her skin. “It wasn’t that. There was…I met someone. Raven…I’m a father.”

“You’re WHAT???” Raven blurted out, nearly dropping the phone again. “I’m sorry I didn’t come find you after the incident in Washington, D.C.” Erik said hurriedly. “I just…I had to keep my family safe above all else.” Raven emitted a laugh that bordered on hysterical. “Erik, I’m not angry, just stunned! I mean, I haven’t spoken to you since 1973 and now you call me out of the blue to tell me you’re married and you have a child?” Erik sighed again. “I know, Raven, and I’m sorry, but our last interaction wasn’t exactly amicable, and my wife and daughter are my first priority. If contacting you would endanger them in any way, I couldn’t risk it.”

“Erik…don’t think I’m not glad to hear from you, but I don’t understand. If contacting me was a risk, why now? What changed?” Raven asked. Erik cleared his throat, a sound he only made when the next words out of his mouth would be particularly difficult to say. “Well…you see, Raven, when I was placed into a maximum-security facility as JFK’s assassin, they placed me in a specially created cell of plastic and glass, no metals. It did an excellent job of keeping me in, but it wasn’t designed to block any other mutant powers, so Azazel managed to visit me a couple times. In 1965, sensing that Project WideAwake was closing in on him, he paid me one last visit to say goodbye……and to tell me you were pregnant.”

The word _pregnant_ sent a shiver through Raven’s ribcage, like someone had poured icy water down her spine. She and Erik were still a couple when he was imprisoned in 1963, and even though they were certainly not in a relationship now, she hadn’t wanted him to know that a different man had gotten her pregnant. Yes, two years had passed before Raven began seeing Azazel, and yes, Erik himself had told her not to put her life on hold for him. It still felt like cheating, and she disliked that he knew. “That was eighteen years ago. I gave birth, I gave the kid away, it’s done. Why does it matter?” she replied, a bit more sharply than she meant to.

Erik took a deep breath before pressing on. “I wasn’t there for you then, Raven, and for that I will be eternally sorry. But I’m here now, and even though I am for all intents and purposes retired, you’re far too important to me to keep this to myself. Just answer me this one thing – did that baby mean anything to you? Did you, at any point, want to keep him?” Raven’s voice caught in her throat, the tears she’d been holding in for eighteen years beginning to stream down her face. “I—I—I don’t know.” she stammered, her voice thick with pent-up emotion. “Wait, Erik, wait – did you say _him?_ Erik, Azazel didn’t live to know the baby was a boy. How do you know the baby was a boy? Erik, what aren’t you telling me?”

For a moment, the room was silent except for Raven’s shuddery sobs, and she was beginning to fear Erik had hung up on her when he finally spoke again. “I called because I found him. Raven, I found your son.”

Two Hours Later

East Berlin

Raven fidgeted with the strap of her purse as the taxi lurched to a stop in front of a tall but narrow brick building, two bouncers guarding the door. “Here you go, lady.” the driver rasped. Raven pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the wet pavement, the damp air nipping at the exposed skin of her arms and seeping through her sheer tights to gnaw at her legs. A shiver and a wave of goosebumps washed across her body; whether it was from the cold or from the anticipation of meeting her son, Raven wasn’t completely sure. She had paid the taxi driver in advance, and as he drove away, she remained frozen where he had dropped her. _You’ve come too far to turn back,_ she told herself. _You can do this, Raven._

She took a shaky breath and forced herself to walk towards the door, towards the thrum of house music and the multicolored lights inside. Word of mouth had told her this place was basically a dogfighting ring – only instead of dogs, it was mutants being forced to fight to the death. For the past week, they had been relentlessly promoting a new fighter, someone they claimed would be capable of dethroning their champion. He was a devil, they said, with claws and fangs and a spade-tipped tail – and blue skin. Sounded an awful lot like the child she’d given birth to.

“What do we have here? A little lost kitten?” one of the bouncers crooned, his tone managing to sound infantilizing and perverted at the same time. The other bouncer didn’t speak, staring at the low neckline of her dress. “You like what you see?” Raven purred, playing along. The bouncer stuck his tongue out and smiled, continuing to stare at Raven’s ample breasts. She forced a smile and approached the hornier of the two bouncers, engaging her pectorals to make her breasts strain at the bodice’s laces. “Yes, kitten.” the hornier bouncer panted, beginning to unzip his pants. Raven forced back a gag, readjusted her smile, and wagged her finger at the bouncer as if she were scolding him. “Not yet. Come here.” she said.

He scrambled down the steps, practically falling on his face in his haste. Raven rolled her eyes inwardly; his eagerness was almost embarrassing. Next thing she knew the bouncer’s hands were on her, grabbing her butt and trying to bury his face in her cleavage. In one quick, smooth motion, Raven probed for the correct nerve in his neck and pinched down firmly. He immediately sagged in her arms, out cold. The second bouncer fumbled to re-zip his pants and draw his sidearm, but she was faster. The heel of Raven’s boot sent the handgun clattering to the pavement; her arms were around his neck half a beat later. Her fingers pressed down on the same nerve, and he crumpled like a deflated hot air balloon.

The bouncers thoroughly dealt with, Raven readjusted the ties of her dress’ bodice and stepped elegantly over their unconscious forms to let herself through the double doors they were supposed to be guarding. Inside, a rabid crowd of viewers were clustered around a two-story-tall octagonal cage, where the current champion, whose mutation was a pair of massive feathered wings, was finishing off tonight’s mutant “bait dog.” As in the canine “sport,” it was common practice to send out a couple of weaker targets for the champion to easily tear apart, to rile the crowd up before kicking off the main event – in this case, the main event was _him._

 _“Yes! Ten fights! Ten victories!”_ the ring announcer shouted from his box. _“The Winged Warrior! The Bird of Prey! The Angel of Death! ANGEL! YES!”_ The crowd roared their agreement; the brutal slaying of the “bait dog” had them frothing at the mouth. The stage had been set for a _real_ fight. As the carcass of the winged man’s latest victim was unceremoniously carted out of a side door in the cage, the victorious mutant flicked blood off his feathers and used the deadly bone hooks in the joints of his wings to carve one last tally in the floor of his corner of the cage; a perfect ten.

While everyone else was focused on the victorious champion, Raven’s eye was drawn to a sudden uptick of activity around the cage’s other tunnel. A couple of men were rolling a tall, narrow box, wrapped in chain links and connected to a dozen heavy electric cables, up to the opposer’s gate. _“Our next fighter comes directly from the Munich Circus.”_ the announcer boomed from his perch, his gleeful tone betraying that the main event was indeed contained in that horrible electrified coffin. “ _The only one who could defeat an Angel is the Devil himself!”_ the ring announcer went on _. “Ladies and gentlemen – the amazing, the fantastic, NIGHTCRAWLER!”_

The two men hauled the coffin upright and swung open its twin doors, dumping its inhabitant into the cage. Raven’s heart seized in her chest. He was tall and lanky, his long legs sprawled out behind him. His tail twitched spastically behind him, indicating distress. His eyes reflected what little light was available to him, their bold amber color visible to Raven even this far away. His retinas flashed as he whipped his head this way and that, and a little cry of panic escaped his throat as Angel crossed the cage floor towards him, hooks out and ready for slaughter. With a frightened yelp, the mutant boy vanished in a puff of blue smoke. Raven’s insides gave a painful lurch. _He didn’t get **that** from my side._

“My side.” What an odd phrase to say to herself. What a _motherly_ phrase. Unfortunately, Azazel’s signature move didn’t seem to be working so well for their son. He reappeared and re-teleported around the cage several dozen times in rapid succession, desperately hurling himself against the chain links like a bee trapped under a jar. His body gave a violent spasm, a strangled cry escaping his throat, and plunged back to the cage floor. _“Caution! High voltage. Sorry mutants!”_ the announcer narrated, giggling with delight at the chance to witness mutant suffering. Unfortunately for this whole operation, anger often only served to sharpen Raven’s mind. _The cage is electrified to prevent the mutants from escaping,_ she thought. _Electricity needs a source. What would happen if I took that source away?_

She scanned the room, trying to shut out her son’s cries of desperation. _There._ In the farthest-back corner of the ceiling, there was a transformer, its heavy cables leading down to a massive fuse box with only a single armed brute to guard it. _Bingo._ With how easily Raven took care of the two buffoons outside, dealing with only one would be a walk in the park. She immediately made a beeline for that corner, deftly weaving her way through the rowdy viewers. The brute was barely even paying attention, too focused on watching the fight. For a moment, Raven thought she might be able to just slip right past him, but apparently his radar for buxom blondes in skimpy dresses was keener than his sense of duty.

“Hey, did you get lost, little mouse? The fight is over there.” he said, indicating to the arena with his chin. Raven glanced over her shoulder, playing along with the brute’s comment. The lanky blue-skinned youth was using the cage rafters to evade Angel, displaying impressive agility and strength for such a coltish-looking boy. Still, with every flip around the wooden beams, with every effortless leap, Raven’s stomach performed acrobatics that rivaled his own as she waited for him to stick the landing. After one particularly impressive evasion, Angel landed on the floor to rest for a moment. “Fight!” he shouted up at his opponent in frustration. “Or they’ll kill us both!” As if emphasizing his point, a handful of men standing right beside the cage began to noisily fiddle with their guns.

“And it’s about to get exciting.” the brute added, in a growl that Raven guessed was meant to be seductive. But, like she had with the first two, she could easily handle gullible thugs, especially if they were horndogs. “Ah, you mean like this, _ja?_ ” she said, touching his shoulder flirtatiously. His arms immediately relaxed, his fingers loosening around his weapon. Raven struck like a viper, delivering a sharp elbow to the brute’s chin that rendered him senseless. As he collapsed backwards, the chair behind him only hastening his fall, Raven threw a quick glance over her shoulder before grabbing of the lever that controlled the influx of power to the cage and yanking it down to nothing. The entire machine almost immediately began to hiss and throw off sparks, singeing Raven’s arms.

As she stumbled back, little jolts of electricity tingling in her fingertips, the sparks from whatever it was she’d just accidently done were running up the cables to the transformer. When the shockwave reached the end of its leash, it built up inside the transformer and caused it to explode. That explosion repeated itself at all the little circuit breakers along the power cables, the cage going dark one quarter at a time. Sparks were spraying from the ceiling, falling on the heads of the panicking crowd. The armed men covering the lower level of the cage opened fire on the winged champion, who was in the process of tearing off a portion of the upper level’s wall to make himself a door. An alarm clanged incessantly from somewhere in the rafters, only adding to the panic of the onlookers.

Raven paused a moment to replace the skimpy purple lace-up dress with dark blue jeans, a black studded leather jacket, and a thin white t-shirt. Then, while everyone else in the crowd desperately clamored for the exits, she shouldered in the opposite direction, frantically searching for the blue-skinned teenager _._ A loud snap and rattle behind her – a sound she had resigned herself to never hearing again when she received word of Azazel’s death – stood out from the din, and she whirled around to see the mutant boy standing frozen in the middle of the fleeing multitudes. She also saw the brawny goon standing just a few feet behind her son with his firearm half-raised, the boy completely unaware of his presence. Raven kicked the gun from his hands, put him in a one-armed headlock, and struck him in the face so hard that she only had to hit him once.

Raven paused a moment to replace the skimpy purple lace-up dress with dark blue jeans, a black studded leather jacket, and a thin white t-shirt. Then, while everyone else in the crowd desperately clamored for the exits, she shouldered in the opposite direction, frantically searching for the blue-skinned teenager _._ A loud snap and rattle behind her – a sound she had resigned herself to never hearing again when she received word of Azazel’s death – stood out from the din, and she whirled around to see the mutant boy standing frozen in the middle of the fleeing multitudes. She also saw the brawny goon standing just a few feet behind her son with his firearm half-raised, the boy completely unaware of his presence. Raven kicked the gun from his hands, put him in a one-armed headlock, and struck him in the face so hard that she only had to hit him once.

A split second later, they were in an alleyway across the street, the man who’d grabbed hold of Raven’s shoulder too stunned from the experience of teleporting – presumably for the first time – to subdue either of them. Raven delivered a swift elbow to his face, easily dropping him, but they were far from being out of the woods. They were smack in the middle of Soviet Germany, dangerously exposed, and her son apparently hadn’t inherited her shapeshifting abilities – either that or he was too frightened to remember to use them. Thinking quickly, Raven stooped to remove the brute’s heavy military trench coat from his limp form, then threw it over her son’s shoulders instead. He seemed to understand, and didn’t resist.

A harsh male voice from behind them shouted something in German; Raven wasn’t sure what, but she had a pretty good idea of the gist of it, considering the voice came from a nearby group of burly men armed with semiautomatic rifles. She quickly let the likeness of Trench Coat Goon overtake that of her preferred form, then half turned towards the men. “They went that way!” she shouted, desperately hoping they hadn’t seen her son’s bold azure skin before she’d managed to throw the coat on him. To her intense relief, the men dashed off in the direction she’d indicated, finally allowing her to turn her full attention to her son _._ Now that he was standing right in front of her, pointy-eared and golden-eyed and perfect, Raven felt a sense of panic rising in her guts. How could she tell this boy, who’d been through so much already, that she was his birth mother? That losing his father had made the idea of motherhood unbearable?

“You can…transform.” the boy said. His voice was soft and gentle and musical and wonderful and _oh god,_ she realized she’d never actually heard her child’s voice until right now. It was everything she thought it would be and more, and at the same time it was a dagger in her chest. She’d missed everything – his first smile, his first words, his first steps. “You’re _her._ The hero.” he whispered almost reverently. Oh…so he’d seen her actions in Washington D.C. He would’ve been, what, six years old? Jesus, why did he have to not only recognize her, but idolize her as well? _As if this situation was in need of **more** complications than it already has._ “I’m nobody. I’m not a hero.” Raven said briskly. “Let’s get out of here.” She laced their fingers together to prevent separation, and with another hiss and snap, the boy they called Nightcrawler whisked them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was largely a transcript of Kurt's introduction scene in X-Men: Apocalypse, but I wanted to capture Raven's first glimpse of her son through her eyes. I imagine it must have been quite a surreal feeling.
> 
> I'll try not to take too long on the next chapter. I know, I know, I've said that before - but I promise, I always try. Sometimes the words just won't come. :(
> 
> FINALLY, drumroll please - this account's new name, inspired by my relation to Edgar Allen Poe and my voracious enjoyment of his word, will be Quoth the Raven....and I will be launching a Tumblr account connected to this one, where I can talk to you guys inbetween chapters and get your thoughts on upcoming stuff before I write it down (although I might veer off topic to run my mouth about various movies/videogames/celebs etc....I apologize in advance for that). I'm SUPER excited about it!!
> 
> P.S. I kind of suck at crediting and all that....half the time I just go "ooh pretty picture" and repost it. Also, I spend a lot of time on Pinterest. (I got my new PFP from there, in fact!!) But anyway, the point of this note was to say, if I ever post your intellectual property, DM me for credit - otherwise, the best I can do is a disclaimer that basically says "this isn't mine, I found it on Pinterest." The Tumblr isn't up yet, but I intend to do it soon. If you don't find it, don't panic - all that means is I probably haven't gotten around to doing it yet. What can I say, I'm a procrastinator.
> 
> Bye!


	9. Not the Only Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Happy new year! I know this chapter took a while, but December is always a crazy month for me, even when in lockdown - fun fact, my birthday is only five days after Christmas (where my Capricorns at?) which left little time for writing, and the events of the first half of January depressed me so much that any inspiration I'd had was gone. 
> 
> Now, I feel a genuine spark of hope for the first time in four years; things are still very difficult and we have a big mess to clean up, but I'm starting to see a light at the end of the tunnel. And what do I do when I'm feeling less depressed?? I ACTUALLY FINISH PROJECTS. Imagine that! XD
> 
> This chapter was super fun to write. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I did bringing it to life.
> 
> Without further ado - the theme for this chapter is "Spaceship" by Daughtry. I've been listening to their music for as long as I can remember, and recently re-discovered them; there's just something about re-listening to music from your youth as an adult and hearing a deeper meaning that you never caught before that's so bittersweet.
> 
> Hood of my car  
> Radio's just loud enough so I can hear Levon  
> Where you are is anybody's guess but mine  
> Just a song that we grew up on  
> Constellations seem so outta line  
> But I'm wishing we could make it this time
> 
> If somebody's out there  
> Show me that you care  
> Give me a sign that comes out of nowhere  
> Like a shooting star  
> Or maybe life on Mars  
> Something inside tells me we can't be too far  
> 'Cause I can see me on a spaceship leavin'  
> Here only to find that we're not the only ones
> 
> (We're not the only ones)
> 
> Call me a fool  
> For daydreaming in the dark and  
> Throwing bottles at the moon  
> Why you're gone is Nobody's Fault But Mine  
> Another song that we grew up on  
> Can anybody tell me where I can find  
> That girl I can't get out of my mind
> 
> If somebody's out there  
> Show me that you care  
> Give me a sign that comes out of nowhere  
> Like a shooting star  
> Or maybe life on Mars  
> Something inside tells me we can't be too far  
> 'Cause I can see me on a spaceship leavin'  
> Here only to find that we're not the only ones
> 
> Looking for love  
> And looking for something more when it's not enough  
> We gotta stay above the clouds  
> 'Cause with our feet both on the ground  
> We'll never learn
> 
> 'Cause I can see me on a spaceship leavin'  
> Here only to find that we're not the only...
> 
> If somebody's out there  
> Show me that you care  
> Give me a sign that comes out of nowhere  
> Like a shooting star  
> Or maybe life on Mars  
> Something inside tells me we can't be too far 
> 
> 'Cause I can see me on a spaceship leavin'  
> Come see for yourself if you don't believe me  
> Together we will find that we're not the only ones
> 
> Yeah, we're not the only ones

One week later

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters

_Somewhere over the rainbow_

_Way up high_

_There’s a land that I heard of_

_Once in a lullaby_

_Somewhere over the rainbow_

_Skies are blue_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream_

_Really do come true_

_Someday I’ll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far behind me_

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops, way above the chimney tops_

_That’s where you’ll find me_

_Somewhere over the rainbow_

_Bluebirds fly_

_Birds fly over the rainbow_

_Why, then, oh why can’t I?_

Judy Garland’s voice crooned softly from the cassette player Kurt had brought to the roof with him, the crackling notes of her signature song reminding him of long, quiet hours spent in his mother’s trailer while waiting for his badly broken ankle to heal. The two of them had watched _The Wizard of Oz_ a total of six or seven times, until Kurt was cheerfully singing every word of “Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead” along with Dorothy and the Munchkins. He imitated the Tin Man’s jerky little dance and did impressions of the Cowardly Lion’s goofy manner of speech – anything to make his mother laugh. She hardly ever smiled and laughed even less; being the source of that fleeting joy made his suffering easier to bear.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, feeling the rough surface of the flagstone shingles rasping across self-inflicted scars, and wriggled his bare toes in the warm night air. The only reminder of that fracture was a little bump under the skin, where the bone had knit itself back together. A few inches higher on his leg, there was a scar more resembling a crater than a mountain range – a permanent reminder of the nine-millimeter round that had torn through layers of tender young muscle and sinew, rendering him unable to walk without a limp for nearly three months. Kurt flexed his ankle in a slow circle, feeling the brittle scar tissue that held the semi-healed muscle fibers together strain against the motion, and winced. Sometimes he wondered if his body would ever fully recover from all it had endured – and if so, could the same be said for his soul?

Kurt dropped his gaze back to his science homework and sighed deeply. His formal education was scant at best; even though was fluent in five languages and had devoured every book in Father Wagner’s collection, his grasp of math and science was…lacking. The professors were more than willing to tutor students, but Kurt was too ashamed to accept help. Aside from English, he spoke German, French, Russian, and Swedish – how many students here could truthfully say _that?_ His peers bemoaned all the historical novels that literature assignments made them pore over; Kurt had long ago read _Frankenstein_ and _Lord of the Flies_ for pleasure. He _wasn’t stupid_ – and yet, staring down at his untouched worksheet, his eyes began to prick with unshed tears of frustration and shame.

When he first met Professor Xavier, the wheelchair-bound Englishman had repeatedly stated that this school would enable him to meet other “gifted individuals, like yourself,” but even here, Kurt was an outsider. Most of the students could still pass as normal; everywhere Kurt looked, he saw skin tones ranging from rich dark brown to warm golden caramel to the palest ivory and every shade inbetween. Professor McCoy and Mystique were the only two individuals he’d met so far whose mutations were as obvious as his, except they both had methods of hiding theirs – Professor McCoy produced his own serum to suppress his irregularities; for Mystique, changing her appearance was second nature. But Kurt? His deformities weren’t the result of an overstimulated gene that could be “turned off,” like with Professor McCoy, and unlike Mystique, the ability to shapeshift wasn’t part of the deal. His skin, his fangs, his pointy ears, his tail, his hands and feet – there was no “treatment” for any of those.

The tape clicked, and Kurt took a break in his fruitless attempts at finishing his homework to flip it over. He remembered most of the steps – well, he thought he did. Wait, was it now that he supposed to stick a pencil in the hole and twist it, or did he do that when he was done with the tape and about to put it away? Why did he have to be so _stupid?!?_ For the second time that evening, Kurt felt hot tears pricking his eyes. Why couldn’t he just be like the other teens, the ones that spoke in nothing but slang and movie quotes and wore Air Jordans every day? Why couldn’t he just fit in? Why couldn’t he just feel _normal_ for once?

“What are you doing up here at this hour?” came a smooth female voice with a thick African accent – he was currently unsure of which country. Kurt twisted at the waist to see Ororo Munroe, the young demigoddess, her long fingers loosely curled around the top rung of the roof ladder. The warm golden light from a hundred manor windows illuminated her from below, providing her pale blue eyes with an eerie yellowish luster. Her grip on the ladder only served to make the lean muscle tone of her exposed arms and shoulders pop out further – and Kurt knew firsthand from sparring with her that Ororo was even stronger than she looked.

The storm goddess tilted her head and crinkled her eyebrows slightly. “Are you going to just…stare at me?” she asked, but the way she said it was miles away from the mocking tone of the other teens. It was casual, almost playful. For the first time, someone his age was simply pointing out his social awkwardness; everyone else practically accused him of it. “Um – no, sorry.” he stammered, blinking and scooting over a few feet so Ororo could climb the rest of the way onto the roof. She did so gracefully, the dangling ends of the double chain she had loosely hung through the belt loops of her black leather leggings jingling against the ladder rungs.

Kurt scooted a little further away, for reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of. Ororo was wearing a sleeveless white top, made of a sort of slippery cloth that lightly clung to her torso, and the way it slid across her skin when she moved made his mouth go dry. She plunked down right next to him, stretching her long legs out in front of her. The silver studs and buckles on her heeled black boots glinted in the light from the windows below. She smelled like jasmine and vanilla; the silver-white hair of her mohawk shimmered like frost. Her skin was a smooth medium cinnamon-brown, contrasting strikingly with her pale blue eyes and nearly colorless hair. She leaned back on her hands, throwing her impressively toned triceps into even sharper relief, and indicated the cassette player with her chin.

“Having trouble?” she asked in her musical accent, in such a way that she didn’t sound condescending or judgmental, just warm and friendly – a harmless offer for help. Kurt reluctantly nodded and handed it over. “These things are funny, aren’t they?” she added, crinkling up her regal nose in a playful smile as her slender fingers handled the little machine. “Yeah…no matter how many times Jubilee teaches me, I keep forgetting how to use it.” Kurt admitted, watching with a hint of envy as Ororo removed and re-inserted the tape like it was nothing. She clicked the play button with one black-polished thumbnail, and the brassy intro of “Respect” blared from the speakers. “Aretha! My girl!” Ororo exclaimed, springing to her feet with a loud jingling of metal. “I love this song!”

All he could do was stare as Ororo smoothly rolled her torso to the beat, the chain around her waist glinting as she moved in and out of the thin shaft of light from the window just below their little corner of the rooftop. “You’re looking at me like I’m from Mars.” Ororo giggled, her azure eyes gleaming as she swayed her shapely hips back and forth. Kurt opened his mouth, then closed it again – his mouth felt as if it were full of ash, every coherent thought fleeing from his mind “Come on, dance with me!” she laughed, reaching towards him with both hands. When he remained frozen in place, she grabbed hold of his wrists and pulled him to his feet.

Overwhelmed at the sight and the sound and the smell of her body so close to his own, he blurted out “But Miss Munroe, I-I cannot dance!” Well, _that_ was a boldfaced lie – once of his earliest memories was of his mother cradling him on her hip with one arm and rattling a tambourine with her other hand, her colorful silk skirt rippling around her ankles. Kurt had grown up surrounded by Romani music, dancing, and culture; no matter how much Herr Getmann tried to snuff out Margali’s pride in her heritage, she included it in her children’s lives wherever she could. The names of most of the dances were lost to him, but Kurt could’ve done them in his sleep. Even with such vastly different music in his ears, his tail and legs were subconsciously swaying to and fro to the rhythm.

“Of course you can, silly. Anyone can dance.” Ororo giggled, her eyes crinkling as if they were laughing with her. “Stay loose. Sway a little.” She laid her hands on Kurt’s ribcage, setting their rhythm, her touch sending lightning bolts through his body and brain. “See? You got it!” Ororo beamed as they moved back and forth in sync. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me, R-E-S-P-E-C-T!” Aretha Franklin’s voice blared from the speakers. “Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me!” Ororo sang along, the grin on her face threatening to make Kurt’s heart explode from his chest. She was beautiful and strong, bursting with life – his opposite in every way, Kurt realized, and miles out of his league.

One of Kurt’s pencils snapped loudly under the heel of Ororo’s boot, causing her to stumble and fall against his chest. “Oh, no, your pencil!” she groaned, swiftly dropping to a crouch to pick up the broken halves. “It’s okay. I have more.” Kurt stammered, his flesh still tingling from the brief pressure of her hands landing on his chest. Then, while picking up the remains of the pencil, Ororo noticed his homework for the first time, and a hot flash of shame rippled through his guts. “Don’t look at that –” he half-pleaded, knowing his face was already darkening with shame. “Oh, so _that’s_ why you were up here. Yeah, the study rooms are usually too loud for me, too. I usually do my homework in my dorm, but this is a much better spot – nothing relaxes the mind like fresh air.” Ororo said, throwing another one of those radiant smiles over her shoulder at Kurt.

She had done it again – spoken about one of his countless insecurities with such a warm and casual tone that she completely disarmed him. “Today’s assignment is…proving difficult for me.” he admitted in a barely audible whisper, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on his intertwined fingers. Ororo blew a sympathetic puff of air through her lips. “Tell me about it.” she agreed, gathering up the unfinished worksheets and stacking them beside the rest of Kurt’s pencils. “I spent two hours on the homework.” She paused, scrunching her nose up thoughtfully as she looked at one of the worksheets. “Hey, I could help you with this. If you want” she offered. “With how much time me and the parts of the cell spent getting to know one another today, I might be of some use if she gets temperamental.”

She finished her statement with a playful wink, and Kurt felt a very different kind of heat in his abdomen than before. “That would be nice.” he replied, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and smiling shyly at Ororo. “Well, then, get over here, dork!” she teased, patting the roof beside her. Kurt meekly plunked down next to her, tucking his tail around himself, and listened attentively as she went over cell walls and cell membranes, mitochondria and chloroplasts, vacuoles and cytoplasm and ribosomes, the nucleus, Golgi bodies, the endoplasmic reticulum, the differences between the structure of plant cells and animal cells, and so forth.

They stayed like that for…well, Kurt wasn’t sure how long they sat there, poring over his homework together, but the manor lights were beginning to go out by the time they were finished. “We should be getting to bed.” Ororo whispered in the darkness. They were sitting so close together that he could feel her breath tickling his ear. She sounded…kind of reluctant? “If we must.” Kurt whispered back, suddenly very aware of how her bare shoulder would lightly brush against his upper arm anytime she moved. In the ensuing silence, neither one of them made any attempt to get up. The tape player had long since run out of battery power; the worksheets were completed and laid aside. There was nothing keeping Ororo here.

And yet, she remained. The light had faded so much that Kurt could only make out her profile, silhouetted in what remained of the soft yellow glow from the manor windows – and he couldn’t help but notice that her eyelashes were so thick that he could still see them, even in this light. She was so beautiful it made his heart ache, but it was more than that – when she spoke to him, he didn’t feel like the freak with the scarred-up blue skin and the heavy accent and the goddamn _tail_. He felt…human. “What’s on your mind?” Ororo asked, her breath tickling his ear again, and Kurt felt a shiver run up his spine. Even though they saw each other every single day – they even sat at the same group study table in civics – and had spent hours each week in combat training together, he didn’t have the courage to initiate conversation with a young woman like her on his own volition. And yet, this was only one in a handful of times that Ororo had found Kurt off by himself and chose to hang out with him.

So that’s what was on his mind, he guessed – why did she seek him out? Why did she care? Everyone loved her; she was confident and strong and funny and beautiful, and she was one of few teens with solid handle on her powers – which in this school, automatically translated to being cool. Sure, teleporting was second nature to Kurt at this point, but he didn’t have the looks or the personality to back his powers up, and Ororo did. Besides, harnessing lightning barehanded and conjuring up tornadoes were a lot more interesting than disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke and hopping through wormholes of his own creation. Ororo’s abilities were bold and ferocious and awe-inspiring to behold, just like she was; everything about Kurt, including his mutant powers, involved hiding.

“It is beautiful, this place.” Kurt sighed, finally answering her question. “My life has gotten so much better since I came here, but I am still sad.” He could feel the blood pooling in his cheeks before the words had even finished leaving his mouth. His accent, and his English, always worsened when he was tired or stressed out, and it was incredibly embarrassing. Even when the other teens were “polite” enough not to say it to his face, Kurt could hear the sardonic chuckles they tried to stifle behind the palms of their hands. They thought he was stupid, just because he couldn’t keep up with all their ridiculous slang. He spoke five languages, counting English – so what if a recently conceived word in one of them occasionally slipped his mind? He doubted most of those snickering teens could even remember a sentence in German or Russian or French, let alone pronounce every word correctly – and they’d have accents, too.

“I understand.” Ororo murmured in reply, shifting a bit closer to rest her head against his shoulder. Kurt’s brain seemed to misfire; the sensation of her hair brushing his neck, the warm puffs of her breath on his skin, and the aroma of her lotion flooded his senses. He felt _safe_ around her, in a way that no one else ever had before. Though he adored his mother, he’d always subconsciously known that she couldn’t keep him safe from Herr Getmann or Rolfe – but frankly, it wasn’t just that. He’d never felt that he could admit to her what he did to himself, even though she knew just by looking at him. She loved him so much, as only a mother can, and Kurt knew that if he admitted to her that he carved himself apart, maiming and scarring the thing she loved, it would break her heart.

When he was with Ororo – even though he’d only known her for a week Kurt just felt _calm._ She didn’t mock him, she didn’t flinch away when he brushed against her, she didn’t snicker when he mispronounced a word. “I miss my mother.” he admitted quietly, the first time he’d mentioned his former life to anyone at the academy. “I miss my brother and sister.” Ororo shifted and resettled her head against his shoulder, letting loose a deep, weary sigh. “I understand that. I miss my family, too. Every day.” Kurt subconsciously flicked one ear in her direction and immediately regretted it, his face growing warm with shame at the instinctive action. He hoped Ororo hadn’t noticed. “What happened to them?” he asked.

Ororo sighed again, resting more heavily against him than she had been a little while ago. “I…um…I don’t really want to think about it right now.” she murmured. “Let’s talk about something else, like summer vacation.” _Summer vacation. Right._ So far, homework had proven to be an excellent excuse to keep to himself and avoid the prying eyes of the other students; with school letting out in a few days, he could no longer hide behind it. “Oh, I forgot, summer vacation is coming up.” he murmured, trying to sound more enthused than he felt. “What does that usually consist of?” Ororo lifted her head and gave him a mischievous smile. “I have no idea.” she admitted in a playfully conspiratorial tone. “I was hoping you did.”

A giggle bubbled up from Kurt’s chest and spilled out his lips, taking him entirely by surprise; something about this girl just tore down his walls. Ororo beamed, looking pleased to have elicited such a genuine reaction. “Scott, Jean, and Jubilee will probably spend a lot of time at the mall, being the rich kids they are.” she half-joked. “Us peasants will either have to pick some pockets or find other ways to entertain ourselves.” Kurt felt a jolt of nervous excitement run through him at the prospect of spending more time with the striking young demigoddess, and he nodded eagerly at her words. “I like the mall!” he blurted out, oddly proud of himself for knowing what a mall was, and for knowing he liked them.

“Malls are fun.” Ororo agreed, stretching her legs and spreading her toes. “Jubilee’s been nagging me to let her help me pick out some new clothes. She’d probably want to style you, too, if you let her. She bought you that bomb MJ jacket, didn’t she? Seems like the sort of thing she’d pick out.” Kurt nodded, proud of the red leather jacket and proud to call it his own. “She showed me the video, with the dancing dead people, and I loved it.” he burbled, too excited to remember the title. “And then we went to the mall with Jean and Scott, and Jubilee saw the jacket and got it for me!” Ororo giggled at his enthusiasm. “That was really cool of her.” she said. “It suits you. Red’s a good color on you. It goes well with your coloring.”

 _Your coloring._ She said it so casually, as if they were discussing that green was a solid go-to color for brunettes or that jewel tones were an excellent choice for people with caramel skin. But that wasn’t at all what she was talking about – she was telling him that wearing red looked good with his _dark blue skin_ and his _yellow eyes_ and his _blue-streaked hair._ How was this possible? How was she so unbothered by his appearance? “Maybe you should help me pick out some clothes, then.” he half-joked, trying to ignore the way his heart was throbbing from being treated as if he were any other boy. “I have no idea what looks good with blue skin.” Ororo stared at him in disbelief. “Blue goes with _so many colors,_ Kurt!” she insisted. “That does it, we’re going clothes shopping this summer.”

Kurt could feel himself blushing again at how eager she was to spend time with him. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a pest.” he asked shyly. Ororo scoffed at him. “Yes, I’m sure. It was my idea to begin with, silly.” she replied in a lighthearted tone, and reached for her boots and socks. “We should head to bed now. There’s gonna be a party tomorrow night to celebrate the last day of school, so it’s best if we’re well rested.” she said, reluctance in her tone as she slid her left foot into its respective boot and began to fasten the countless buckles and chains that adorned its ankle. Kurt began to gather up his homework, stuffing his half-dozen pencils into the pocket of his jeans. He reached down to pick up the tape player, and his hand collided with a set of long, slender, light brown fingers.

“Oops, sorry.” Ororo smiled good-naturedly, flashing her dazzling teeth, and held the little device up between her and Kurt. “Here’s your player.” she added, her voice a little softer than it had been a few moments ago. Kurt fumbled to take it, his hands tingling from the contact with hers. “Thanks.” he whispered back. His heart was beating very fast, but not like it did when he was frightened or embarrassed. No, this was different. This sensation turned his legs to jelly and his brain to mush, like some kind of drug, but instead of everything feeling fuzzy, it was like his senses were dialed to eleven. The world around him seemed far away, and yet everything right in front of him was thrown into sharper focus. His senses were consumed with the sound of Ororo’s deep, slow breaths, with the lingering warmth on his skin from her touch, with the ambrosial scent of jasmine and vanilla that hung heavily in the air between them.

“Good night, Kurt.” Ororo whispered, a few moments or a century later. Then, she was gone – down the ladder, swallowed by the darkness below, as if the past few hours had been nothing more than a beautiful dream. All Kurt could do was watch her leave, still adrift in the heady feeling of her fingers against his, so warm and smooth and delicate…so _human._ How did she look at him and not recoil? She could insinuate herself into any social circle in this school, yet she sought out the skittish outcast and made it her mission to tease a smile out of him. She was _wonderful._ Kurt sighed deeply, the scent of jasmine and vanilla still hanging heavily in the air where the young demigoddess had just been. His jacket faintly smelled like her; was it odd to not want to wash it again for a _long_ time?

He would barely remember gathering up his schoolwork, heading inside, taking a bath and climbing into bed; as far as his brain was concerned, the evening ended with that moment, and with that wonderous feeling. They’d only known each other for a week, but there were girls Kurt had known for months or even years that had never made him feel this way. When they were together, he felt safe, calm……almost _normal,_ for once. And the best part? It seemed as if Ororo didn’t like him _in spite_ of his coloring, tail, or fangs, but as if she liked him _because_ of those qualities. He knew that was just wishful thinking – no one, especially a girl that looked like her, could ever look at him and see anything but a monster. But still…when they were alone together, it was nice to pretend that she might look at him the way he looked at her, even if just for a little while.

* * *

First Lieutenant Marvin Banks was nervous. Everyone was, right now. Nearly a fortnight they’d been holed up in this dark and drafty bunker, dutifully giving daily updates to Washington – “updates” being the official term for what could more accurately be described as “chasing our tails for a week and a half.” There was still no sign of Weapon X; the radio silence was almost more nervewracking than if he’d come charging into the command room with claws unsheathed the morning after his escape. It felt like he was stalking them, waiting _just_ out of their line of sight for the right moment to attack – and when he did, Banks knew Weapon X would slaughter every last one of them, just like he had two weeks ago.

His throat went dry at the memory of the trail of dismembered bodies Weapon X had left in his wake – innards dangling out of abdomens brutally slit open from crotch to neck, heads and necks gored through-and-through by metal claws, limbs shredded down to muscle and bone. A shiver ran down his back, and he subconsciously quickened his pace, as if the unpredictable and violent mutant were some sort of bogeyman he could outrun. If only that were the case – this bogeyman was not only very real, but he could easily run down a human. Lieutenant Banks felt a rush of relief as he emerged from the dim hallway into the more well-lit command room, but that sense of relief quickly evaporated when he remembered why he was here. He cleared his throat. “Colonel Stryker?”

The older man was seated at a three-monitor setup, his back to the door. He waved one hand, telling Banks to enter, and did not acknowledge him in any other way. The young First Lieutenant stepped fully into the room and stood at parade rest, reciting the latest in a series of identical reports – still no sign of Weapon X, their sources would immediately notify them at the slightest change, Washington was expecting an update, the usual. Colonel Stryker didn’t move a muscle or make a sound the entire time Lieutenant Banks was speaking, his eyes fixed on the center monitor. Security camera tapes of Weapon X tearing his way through dozens of Bank’s fallen comrades ran across the grainy screen again and again; each time it reached its end, Colonel Stryker would rewind it – the only time he ever moved – and start it over. Lieutenant Banks did his best to pay no mind to the footage of soldiers being disemboweled and continue with his spiel, but their screams and death-gurgles were hard to ignore.

“Lieutenant Banks.” Stryker said out of the blue, the first time the younger man had heard his superior officer utter a word in three days. The sound was becoming so foreign that Banks jumped when he spoke, but quickly regained his composure and hoped Stryker hadn’t noticed. “Yes, Colonel Stryker, sir?” he replied, relieved when his voice didn’t betray how tightly wound his nerves were. Stryker beckoned him over, still not turning around or even glancing in his direction, and Banks obediently stepped up beside his chair and returned to parade rest. “Look at this, Banks.” Colonel Stryker said, pointing to the screen. Lieutenant Banks swallowed his bile and bent over a little to follow his superior’s gaze, expecting to see footage of a spectacularly gory kill.

What he saw instead was three teenagers, none of them older than sixteen or seventeen – a redheaded girl, a stocky boy wearing sunglasses, and a tall, slender boy with cobalt-blue skin and a long prehensile tail. As he watched, the blue-skinned boy suddenly grabbed hold of the arms of the other two teens, and the group vanished in a literal puff of smoke. Banks had seen plenty of mutants during his time serving under Stryker, but teleporting mutants were something he’d only heard rumors about. The Colonel smirked, amused at the younger man’s facial expression. “He’s quite something, isn’t he?” he murmured, rewinding the tape and re-playing the moment when the trio disappeared. Banks wordlessly shook his head and blinked. These mutant folk were full of surprises.

“Imagine what our military could do with power like that. Trask thought that shapeshifting woman was the key to the greatest weapon in history – who knows, maybe she was, but that program can never be reopened thanks to that fiasco in ’73. We need a _new weapon,_ Lieutenant Banks; one that can’t be taken away from us. We need to do it _right_ this time.” Stryker mumbled feverishly, bloodshot eyes fixed on the grainy screen. “Sir…are you alright?” Banks asked, nervously shifting his weight from one booted foot to the other. The older man had been acting so _strange_ ever since they had recovered the security camera footage from that day; Banks had thought he was simply dealing with the loss of his pet project, but now he realized it was something else: he’d found a new obsession. The young First Lieutenant glanced back at the video, currently paused, and felt a shiver run up his spine. The boy looked so young and scared. If Stryker had this kid in his crosshairs, a nightmare awaited him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! I'm not sure how much timeskipping I'm going to do to get from 1983 to post-Dark Phoenix, so as always, I would LOVE to hear you guys' input! 
> 
> (and speaking of Dark Phoenix, using "Spaceship" as the theme was an unintentional nod to that film that I'm rather pleased with, hehe)
> 
> I hope to see you in the comments!! Bye!!

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone out there knows a good Romani lullaby or even just a good German lullaby - or Russian, or something else Margali might have been exposed to - that she could sing to Kurt, I would greatly appreciate it if you would share it with me - preferably with the translation included (and the transliteration, if there is one). I've been combing the Internet and haven't been able to find anything, unless I wanted to use a more Western European/North American song, which I'd prefer to avoid, since I don't want to erase Kurt's more Central/Eastern European upbringing. Thanks!


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